THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


~"1  ?? 


-, 


IN  WHITE  AND  BLACK 


A       STORY 

BY 

W.  W.  PINSON 


"  In  all  the  crowded  universe, 

There  is  but  one  stupendous  word ; 
And  huge  and  rough  or  trimmed 

and  terse, 

Its  fragments  build  and  undergird 
The  songs  and  stories  we  rehearse.'1'' 

— HOLLAKD. 


Press  of 

The  J.  W.  Burke  Company 
Macon,  Georgia 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BY 
W.  W.  PINSON. 


GO 


IN   WHITE   AND 
BLACK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    EAVESDROPPERS. 

"I  'clar  to  gracious,  Mammie,  ef 
you  ain't  gittin'  as  onsufferable  keer- 
less  as  us  young-  nig-gers." 

The  heap  of  dozing-  complacency  in 
the  kitchen  corner  straightened  into 
life  with  the  tart  reply:  "G'long  wid 
yo'  black  kyarcus,  I  wa'nt  'sleep." 

"Nobody  sed  you  wuz;  you's  kickin' 
fo'  you's  spurred.  But  ef  you  wa'nt 
sleepin'  you  shore  'have  lack  you  wuz. 
You  'mind  me  o'  ole  Unc'  Zeke  fishin' 
fer  perch  when  they  bitin'  rig-ht  good. 
'Sides  you  done  let  de  water  bile  oher 
an'  mos'  put  de  fire  clean  out" 

"You  thinkin'  you's  monstous  peart 
a-sassin'  yo'  own  Mammie  what  dun 

brung  you  up  an'  nuss  you  when  you 
i 

1661432 


2  In  White  and  Black. 

can't  do  nothin'  fur  yo'self.  I  spec' 
you  done  an'  forgot  all  dat.  Buck 
niggers  lack  you  mos'  ingin'ly  do 
furgit.  I  spar'd  too  many  dem  hick'ries 
fur  you  to  be  'spec'ful.  'Sides,  hunny, 
I  ain't  bleeg'd  to  hurry,  case  de  white 
folks  gwine  be  late  'count  er  bein'  kep' 
up  by  de  party  las'  night." 

"Den  whut  I's  spilin'  to  know  is 
whut  mek  you  hustle  me  up  so  soon 
to  mek  de  fire  in  de  big  house,  den 
when  I  come  here  I  fin'  you  snoozin' 
in  de  corner,  jes  same  as  a  oberseer 
uv  a  rainy  day.  I's  pow'ful  feerd 
you's  gittin'  triflin'  sence  you  got  sot 
free." 

"Git  out  wid  yo'  long  tongue-  I 
done  an'  tole  you  dat  tongue  gwine 
git  you  in  trouble.  Yo'  mouf's  de 
biggest  part  o'  you,  'ceptin'  it's  yo' 
foot,  an'  when  it  ain't  full  o'  vittles  it's 
allus  full  o'  nonsensiful  gabble." 

This  conversation  between  Ben  and 
his  mother,  whom  we  shall  come  to 
know  as  Aunt  Lylie,  as  she  was  uni 
versally  called  by  the  white  folks,  was 
in  the  best  of  humor.  The  fact  is, 
she  never  felt  prouder  of  her  strap- 


The  Eavesdroppers.  3 

ping-  boy,  now  standing-  on  the  verge 
of  manhood,  than  when  he  was  try 
ing  to  hold  his  own  with  her  in  some 
such  battle  of  words;  nor  was  she  ever 
quite  so  much  to  his  liking  as  when 
she  was  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of 
mock  abuse  on  him,  for  then  it  was  he 
knew  her  heart  was  warm  toward  him. 

At  this  point  Ben  dropped  his  voice 
to  a  confidential  tone,  and  said : 
"Mammie,  I's  gwine  to  tell  you  whut 
I  seed  las'  night  when  I  wuz  comin' 
roun'  by  de  big  po'ch  arter  I  dun 
carr'd  de  dishes  fur  de  tables  Jes  as 
I  come  roun'de  corner  Miss  Dora  she 
come  down  the  steps,  and  Mars  Law- 
ranee  he  come  up  de  walk,  an'  dey 
met  right  onderde  big  beech,  dat  'pear 
to  hole  up  its  han's  to  shiel'  um  fum 
de  light,  an'—" 

"G'long  wid  you,  an'  doan  come 
makin'  up  no  tales,"  broke  in  Aunt 
Lylie. 

"Sho's  ole  Sookey  Brown's  a  witch, 
I's  tellin'  you  de  Lawd's  truf,  Mam 
mie;  but  den  I  spec'  you's  gittin'  too 
old  to  keer  'bout  sich  nonsense  as 
co'tin'."  Here  Ben  began  to  whistle 


4  In  White  and  Black. 

and  turned  as  if  to  go  out.  All  the 
time  he  knew  full  well  he  could  not 
get  out  of  that  room  without  telling 
his  story  to  the  end.  Aunt  Lylie  con 
trived  to  get  between  him  and  the 
door. 

"Who's  gittin'  ole?  'Sides,  what's 
dat  you  been  dreamin'?  I  spec'  you 
eat  too  much  er  dat  cake,  you  cyar'd 
roun'  so  gran'  wid  yo'  head  rar'd  back 
same  as  a  devil  hoss  when  he's  mad. 
Some  folks  sees  mo'  wid  dey  eyes 
shet  den  dey  do  wid  um  open.  Now, 
you  jes  up  an'  tell  me  whut's  in  dat 
head  o'  you'n.  I  allus  tole  you  yo' 
head's  lack  a  sasser  o'  'lasses  in  fly- 
time." 

Then  Ben  obediently  detailed  to  her 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  how  he 
had  by  accident  witnessed  the  meet 
ing  of  his  young  mistress  with  "Mars 
Lawrance,"  and  heard  him  declare 
his  love  for  her,  and  how  she  had  lis 
tened  with  no  signs  of  disapproval. 
All  of  which  was  told  with  many  em 
bellishments  and  liberal  if  not  alto 
gether  apt  comparisons.  Aunt  Lylie 
listened  with  very  ill-concealed  inter- 


The  Eavesdroppers.  5 

est,  and  the  while  she  was  evidently 
busy  with  her  own  thoughts.  When 
Ben  had  finished  she  was  silent  for  a 
minute  and  then  said,  with  feigned 
indifference: 

"Is  dat  whut  you  takin'  on  so  'bout? 
You  'ten'  lack  hit  sumpin  sho'nuff 
You  know  'bout  as  much  'bout  white 
folks'  perceedin's  as  a  hog  knows 
'bout  hebb'n.  When  you  done  an' 
lib  in  de  house  wid  um  day  an'  night 
till  de  chillun  you  played  wid  done  an' 
got  growed  up  chillun  ob  dey  own, 
den  you  can  talk." 

This  boast  of  superior  advantages 
in  the  way  of  familiarity  with  the  ways 
of  the  white  people  was  a  favorite 
weapon  of  Aunt  Lylie's.  With  Ben 
it  was  usually  an  effective  one,  but 
this  time  he  was  ready  with,  "Ef  I 
ain't  been  libbin  wid  white  folks  a 
hunderd  years  fo'  de  war,  I  spec'  dese 
eyes  an'  years  wan't  made  fur  nuthin, 
an'  when  I  sees  a  flower  bloomin' 
an  a  bee  comes  hummin'  'roun',  1 
knows  what  he's  arter." 

"Dat'sasign  you  mus'  make  yo'se'f, 
sca'ce,  else  you  gwine  git  yo'se'f  stun. 


6  In  White  and  Black 

Now,  Ben,  hunny,  lemme  tell  you, 
you's  gittin  pow'ful  flighty  in  yo'  mine 
eber  sence  you  tuck  tolikin'dat  yaller 
gal  at  de  Lucases.  You  doan  no  mo'n 
know  a  han'-gourd  fum  a  watermillion, 
an'  how  you  spec'  to  know  'bout  dis 
bizness  you  talkin'  'bout?  Now,  doan 
you  go  to  puttin'  no  highfalutin  ob 
structions  on  dat,  an'  1  want  you  to 
promus  yo'  ole  Mammie  you  won't 
open  yo'  head  to  nobody  'bout  it,  kase 
'tain't  no  use  to  be  gittin'  yo'se'f  in 
trouble.  Here's  dat  sillibub  I  done 
an'  sabe  fur  you.  Now  you  done  an' 
promus  me,  ain't  you,  hunny?" 

"Why,  Mammie/'  said  Ben,  "co'se 
I  ain't  gwine  to  be  publicatin'  fambly 
secrets,  an'  ef  yo'  min's  so  sot  on  it,  I 
jes  up  an'  furgit  it  myse'f,  but  what  I 
seed  I  seed." 

The  sillibub  soon  disappeared,  and 
so  did  Ben,  only  half  aware  of  the 
commotion  he  had  set  up  in  Aunt 
Lylie's  mind.  As  she  went  about  her 
work  she  might  have  been  heard  talk 
ing  the  matter  over  with  herself.  This 
was  one  of  her  habits,  indulged  in 
most  in  her  very  serious  moods. 


The  Eavesdroppers.  7 

When  she  had  a  knotty  problem  to 
solve  she  needed  to  talk  it  over  with 

herself. 

Thus  she  wrought  at  the  new  prob 
lem  but  now  thrown  on  her  motherly 
heart,  while  with  busy  hands  she  pre 
pared  the  morning  meal:  "Dat's  a 
oncommon  brat  fur  shore.  He's  most 
as  hard  to  fool  as  a  mink,  an'  I  'clar 
he's  as  obsarvin'  as  a  rabbit.  An'  so 
dey's  two  on  urn.  It's  who  shall  an' 
who  shan't — Mars  Lawrance  or  Mars 
Roswell.  Laws,  I  know  de  men's 
gwine  be  worry'n  dat  chile.  When  I 
was  settin'  by  de  gyardin  palin'  las' 
night  a  thinkin'  'bout  de  day  when 
Ole  Mistiss  tole  me  she  want  me  stay 
wid  Dodie,  I  ain't  'spicion  I  gwine 
hear  whut  I  did.  When  i  hear  Mars 
Roswell  'gin  dat  saf  talk,  I  doan 
know  whut  Dodie  gwine  do.  But  she 
doan  need  nobody  to  tell  'er.  When 
she  spoke  up  so  proud  an'  cyar'd 
'erse'f  so  high,  I  say,  Thank  de  Lawd, 
the  sperrit  o'  de  mudder's  in  de  chile.' 
An'  jes  to  think  she's  gro'd  up,  an' 
come  to  be  a  woman,  an'  nobody  to 
look  arter  'er'  cep'  her  poor  ole  black 


8  In  White  and  Black. 

Mammie.  But"  (after  a  thoughtful 
pause)  "de  Lawd  knows  I  gwine  do 
my  bes'  an' — ."  Here  the  door-bell  to 
the  big"  house  abruptly  broke  off  the 
soliloquy. 

Let  the  reader  who  takes  offense  at 
being;  ushered  into  this  story  by  way 
of  the  kitchen  take  leave  of  us  now, 
for  we  warn  that  respectable  indi 
vidual  that  the  offense  is  likely  to  be 
repeated  many  times  before  we  are 
through  with  this  glance  at  life  as  it 
was  but  is  no  longer.  But  before  we 
part  let  me  whisper  that  this  kitchen 
belonged  to  a  period  when  the  kitchen 
of  the  South  was  a  highly  respectable 
place — a  very  different  thing  from 
what  it  has  become  under  the  new 
regime — and  that  personages  were  not 
infrequently  found  reigning  there  well 
worthy  to  be  numbered  among  one's 
acquaintances.  If  my  reader  should 
chance  to  belong  to  the  older  genera 
tion,  that  sentence  will  meet  with  ap 
proval  and  compel  a  sigh  for  the  good 
old  days;  that  is,  if  this  same  reader 
chances  also  to  be  a  dweller  in  the 
sunny  regions  round  about  Vandalia, 


The  Eavesdroppers.  9 

the  town  —  sometimes  by  courtesy 
called  city — into  which  we  have  made 
our  entrance  by  this  humble  route. 
This  town  is  typically  Southern  and 
also  ante-bellum.  It  had  grown  up  in 
that  golden  age  of  the  South  when 
the  land  was  fertile,  the  fields  wide, 
the  negro  strong  and  not  idle,  and 
cotton  was  king.  Everything  about 
it  was  on  a  broad  and  liberal  scale,  as 
if  the  chivalry,  generosity  and  pro 
verbial  hospitality  of  its  people  had 
written  themselves  large  in  these  ma 
terial  forms,  that  all  the  world  might 
read.  The  streets  were  broad,  lawns 
extensive  and  houses  massive,  with 
great  pillared  porches,  with  no  gew 
gaws,  but  simple  elegance  the  funda 
mental  architectural  law.  There  were 
trees  everywhere.  They  lined  the 
walks  and  avenues,  kept  lordly  watch 
in  the  squares,  and  shaded  with  their 
interlacing  branches  the  spacious  and 
grass-covered  lawns  of  the  more  pre 
tentious  homes.  There  was  that  about 
its  appearance  which  provoked  the 
deep  breath  of  content  and  inspired 
the  upward  look. 


io  In  White  and  Black. 

On  the  west  side  of  the  town,  sweep 
ing  northward,  was  a  range  of  wooded 
hills.  Through  these  hills  Clear  Creek 
glided,  with  many  a  fall  and  rapid, 
with  much  year-round  spray  and  dash 
and  gurgle;  then  circled  like  a  band 
of  polished  silver  the  southern  limits 
of  the  town.  One  railroad  like  a  sin 
gle  artery  bound  this  town  to  the  rest 
of  the  world's  great  life.  Thus,  with 
vast  fields,  meadows,  pasture-lands 
around  it,  stretching  away  beneath  the 
ravished  eye  of  the  beholder,  was 
Vandalia,  before  the  guns  of  Fort 
Sumter  woke  the  thunders  of  war. 
Somewhat  different  now,  as  well  it 
might  be,  after  having  lain  in  the 
center  of  that  four-years'  whirlwind 
and  fire.  Still  it  was  Vandalia,  with 
charred  fences,  neglected  fields,  felled 
forests,  ditched  and  grave  -  scarred 
landscapes,  empty  sleeves,  crutches, 
crushed  hopes,  but  withal  much  that 
fire  could  not  burn  nor  grape  and 
bomb  destroy — proud  traditions,  for 
titude,  faith  in  God  and  courage  to 
begin  over.  Her  sons  and  daughters 
did  as  do  trees  in  a  storm — the  weak 


The  Eavesdroppers.  // 

went  down,  the  less  weak  only  bent 
before  it,  the  strong — and  they  were 
many — faced  it,  grappled  it,  and  stood 
for  that  better  time  that  has  since 
come,  crowned  with  the  nobler  con 
quest  on  whose  escutcheon  there  is 
no  blood,  and  in  whose  track  of  widen 
ing  glory  there  are  no  tears. 

Into  this  town  came  Lawrance  Ken- 
yon,  hunting  an  outlet  into  the  world. 
He  found  it  in  the  large  store  of  Mel 
ton  &  Ford,  whose  service  he  entered 
as  bookkeeper  on  the  first  of  January, 
1868.  He  began  at  the  same  time  the 
study  of  law,  which  he  pursued  as 
his  work  in  the  store  permitted.  This 
gave  him  no  time  for  society,  but  he 
cared  not  for  that.  His  only  capital 
was  a  healthy  brain  and  a  stout  heart, 
and  he  must  make  the  most  of  these. 
He  soon  began  to  win  his  way.  The 
stranger,  who  had  been  taken  by  the 
community  on  trial,  if  not  on  suspicion, 
was  beginning  to  be  trusted.  He  was 
slowly  clearing  a  space  about  him  in 
which  to  live  his  life.  Thus  must 
every  soul,  as  a  settler  in  a  new  con 
tinent  thick  with  virgin  forests  and 


i2          In  White  and  Black. 

pathless,  clear  for  himself  space  and 
blaze  his  own  path,  or  sit  forever  en 
tangled  in  the  wilderness  of  indolence. 
All  that  Lawrance  had  inherited  from 
the  past  was  within  him — health,  cour 
age,  and  a  will  to  try.  In  truth,  what 
else  could  he  ?  What  else  is  worth 
inheriting?  The  world  lies  at  the  feet 
of  him  who  has  these.  To  him  who 
has  them  not,  other  things,  titles, 
names,  escutcheons,  wealth,  come  in 
vain.  The  world,  all  worlds,  will  deny 
to  him  all  that  it  is  worth  while  to 
crave.  The  things  men  inherit  are 
mostly  weights;  they  must  grow  their 
own  wings.  We  inherit  mostly  the 
names,  the  empty  husks  of  things; 
the  things  themselves  we  must  win. 
When  the  things  themselves  are  won, 
we  sometimes  find  they  have  other 
names  and  wear  other  outer  forms — 
names  and  forms  the  world  will  not 
recognize,  for  wisdom  alone  "is  justi 
fied  of  her  children."  Nobleman  was 
two  words  till  made  into  one  by  those 
who  were  willing  to  pay  high  for 
showy  titles,  and  then  it  lost  its  mean 
ing.  Wealth  no  longer  has  any  kin- 


The  Eavesdroppers.  13 

ship  to  "weal;"  it  has  to  do  only  with 
dollars.  Our  hero  was  not  hampered 
by  any  of  these  dead-weights,  for  he 
was  fortunate  enough  to  be  born  poor, 
and  his  parents  were  simply  honest, 
unknown  people.  When  he  turned 
from  the  grave  of  his  mother,  he  was 
alone  in  the  world,  and  he  set  out  with 
high  ideals  and  higher  hopes  to  try 
what  he  might  do.  A  good  presence, 
a  warm  heart,  a  quick  imagination, 
he  was  a  man  you  would  like  at  once 
and  love  later  on. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A    NOVEL    INTRODUCTION. 

Dora  Melton  had  but  lately  returned 
from  Boston,  where  she  had  been  at 
school  since  the  death  of  her  mother. 
Thither  she  had  gone  because  an  aunt 
on  her  mother's  side  lived  there.  Less 
than  three  years  had  changed  her  from 
girl  to  woman.  When  she  returned 
she  had  already  crossed  the  line  that 
divides  between  the  flowerland  of 
girlhood  and  the  soberer,  yet  sunny, 
land  of  womanhood.  But  she  had 
carried  over  more  of  what  was  truest 
and  best  than  most  people  do.  To 
the  strength  and  maturity  of  the 
woman  she  added  the  charm  and  sim 
plicity  of  the  child.  She  seemed  to 
have  absorbed  the  very  sunshine  of 
her  native  skies  and  the  wayward, 
playful  breezes  that  chased  each  other 
over  her  native  hills.  She  was  artless, 
caring  to  be  only  herself,  which  was 


14 


A  Novel  Introduction.          75 

enough.  Such,  with  sunny  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  round,  large  and  lustrous — 
a  face  all  animation,  with  more  spirit 
than  color,  yet  fair  to  behold — with 
that  nameless  charm  about  her  that 
pleases  more  than  beauty,  form 
graceful,  with  movement  rather  quick 
and  energetic,  was  Dora  Melton.  Add 
to  this  that  she  was  the  only  daughter 
and  only  living  child  of  Mr.  George 
Melton,  senior  member  of  the  firm  of 
Melton  &  Ford,  and  one  of  the  oldest, 
most  honored  and  wealthiest  citizens 
of  Vandalia. 

The  first  Sunday  after  her  home 
coming  she  went  to  church  with  her 
father.  Lawrance  Kenyon  sat  oppo 
site  Mr.  Melton's  pew.  She  entered, 
and  he  said,  "She's  proud."  She 
turned  her  look  his  way,  and  he  said, 
"She's  interesting;  what  eyes!  what 
hair!"  She  gave  devout  attention, 
and  he  said,  "She's  pious."  He  saw 
her  smile  at  a  child  that  nodded  on 
the  seat  in  front  of  her,  and  he  said, 
"She's  frivolous."  He  saw  her  eyes  fill 
with  tears  at  some  pathetic  passages 
in  the  sermon,  and  he  said,  "She's 


1 6          In  White  and  Black. 

sentimental."  The  fact  is,  we  are 
afraid  he  did  not  hear  nor  see  much 
else,  he  was  so  busy  with  his  inven 
tory  of  this  young-  life.  He  found  his 
conclusions  unsatisfying  and  contra 
dictory,  as  any  inventory  of  that  vast, 
fathomless  something  we  call  human 
nature  is  apt  to  be.  The  most  myste 
rious  thing  of  all  was  why  he  had 
taken  any  interest  in  this  young  lady 
at  all.  To  this  he  could  give  no 
answer  satisfactory  to  himself.  He 
also  was  an  unsolved  problem,  an  un- 
analyzable  quantity,  with  ever  new 
and  unfamiliar  elements  coming  into 
view.  Here  was  one  element  of  a  new 
sort,  this  unaccountable  interest  in 
Dora  Melton,  not  only  difficult  to 
comprehend,  but  also  hard  to  control. 
That  afternoon  Lawrance  had  a 
chance  to  study  his  problem  at  closer 
range.  It  came  about  in  quite  an  un 
expected  way.  He  was  taking  a  stroll 
just  as  twilight  began  to  shake  the 
gold  of  sunset  from  its  meshes.  His 
way  led  him  down  beside  the  laughing 
and  limpid  waters  of  Clear  Creek  to 
ward  a  spot  where  the  current  ran 


A  Novel  Introduction.          77 

close  into  the  bluff,  whose  rocky  ram 
part  gave  it  a  check  and  a  sharp  turn. 
It  rippled  over  wide  and  sandy  shal 
lows  above  this,  but  here  the  obstruc 
tion  had  fretted  its  channel  to  a  much 
greater  depth.  A  large  bowlder,  that 
by  some  upheaval  or  downheaval 
somewhere  in  the  dim  past  had  been 
torn  from  the  bluff,  lifted  its  age- 
rounded  head  in  mid-stream.  What 
was  Lawrance's  astonishment  when 
he  came  in  full  view  of  this  miniature 
island  to  discover  that  it  was  inhab 
ited!  There,  perched  on  the  summit 
of  that  rock,  was  none  other  than 
Dora  Melton.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  turn  back,  for  he  felt  that  he  ought 
not  to  intrude  on  her  privacy.  This 
impulse  was  checked  by  the  discovery 
that  there  was  no  earthly  way  for  her 
to  have  got  there  without  wading  or 
swimming,  as  the  rock  was  at  least 
ten  feet  from  the  bank  and  with  no 
visible  connection  with  it.  Besides, 
she  lifted  up  a  face  in  whose  expres 
sion  mirth  and  confusion  were  so 
strangely  blended  that  one  would  wish 
to  know  what  it  meant — that  is,  Law- 


i8  In  White  and  Black. 

ranee  did.  It  was  like  an  unfinished 
story.  The  expression  was  as  charm 
ing-  as  it  was  curious.  When  her  eyes 
met  his  she  broke  into  a  laugh  that 
was  all  the  more  musical  for  the  tears 
that  it  concealed.  Now  Lawrance  was 
not  only  embarrassed,  he  was  offended. 
He  did  not  at  all  relish  being-  laughed 
at  by  a  strange  young  lady  in  that 
fashion.  He  doubtless  showed  it,  and 
was  about  to  turn  away,  when  she 
said  in  a  manner  as  natural  and  un 
affected  as  that  of  a  child: 

"Please  don't  run  away.  I  am  en 
tirely  harmless,  and  I  did  not  mean  to 
be  rude." 

Lawrance  lifted  his  hat  and  bowed 
in  token  of  surrender,  and  we  suspect 
that  he  smiled.  She  continued: 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  trouble  you, 
but  I  fear  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to 
help  me  out  of  this." 

Then  he  was  at  his  ease,  as  men 
always  are  when  they  have  a  recog 
nized  advantage. 

He  drew  nearer. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "but  how  on 
earth  did  you  come  to  be  there?" 


A  Novel  Introduction.          ig 

"The  question  that  interests  me  now 
is  how  I  am  to  get  away.  Please  help 
me  to  solve  that  first.  You  will  find 
a  plank  down  there,"  and  she  pointed 
down  the  stream  to  where  a  plank  lay 
against  the  bank. 

Lawrance  soon  had  the  plank  in 
place  and,  though  a  narrow  bridge,  it 
was  sufficient,  and  with  a  little  steady 
ing  Dora  was  soon  on  shore.  Then 
she  extended  her  hand  with  a  frank, 
unstudied  cordiality,  saying:  "I  arn 
Dora  Melton,  and  I  believe  you  are 
Mr.  Kenyon.  Allow  me  to  thank  you, 
but  I  am  sorry  I  made  you  soil  your 
clothes." 

"My  only  regret  is,  Miss  Melton, 
that  you  did  not  set  me  a  harder  task, 
that  I  might  have  had  some  claim  to 
your  gratitude.  I  would  gladly  have 
brought  you  two  planks,  so  you  see  I 
am  still  in  debt  to  you." 

"Don't  be  afraid  that  I  shall  press 
my  claim,  if  it  is  to  cost  me  another 
experience  like  that,"  she  said. 

"Then  allow  me  to  increase  the  debt 
by  claiming  the  privilege  of  seeing 
you  home,  since  it  is  growing  late." 


20 


In  White  and  Black. 


As  they  walked  along  amid  the 
deepening  shadows,  she  relieved  his 
curiosity  as  to  how  she  came  to  be  on 
the  rock.  "You  see,"  she  said,  "I 
came  down  here,  as  I  often  do,  for  ;\ 
breath  of  air  and  a  glimpse  of  nature. 
It  is  so  close  to  the  house  that  I  feel 
entirely  safe,  and  I  enjoy  the  quiet 
and  seclusion.  This  afternoon  1 
brought  a  book  for  an  hour's  reading. 
When  I  saw  that  rock,  with  the  plank 
extending  out  to  it,  I  thought  how 
delightful  it  would  be  to  sit  out  there 
and  read  awhile.  Walking  the  plank 
was  a  little  risky,  but  I  like  risks,  and 
so  I  ventured.  I  was  careless  and,  in 
turning,  caught  my  skirt  on  the  end 
of  the  plank  and  threw  it  into  the 
water.  I  felt  very  helpless  as  I  saw  it 
drift  away,  leaving  me  a  prisoner.  I 
was  a  little  too  far  from  the  house  to 
make  myself  heard,  and  I  did  not 
relish  the  idea  of  waiting  there  till 
some  one  came  in  search  of  me.  I 
never  before  wanted  to  be  a  mermaid 
and  never  was  more  certain  that  I  was 
entirely  human.  My  situation  was 


A  Novel  Introduction.          21 

really  becoming"  serious  when  you  ar 
rived  on  the  scene." 

Lawrance  felt  himself  at  liberty 
to  laugh,  as  he  had  been  strongly 
tempted  to  do  when  he  first  realized 
the  situation. 

"I  am  afraid  I  was  not  altogether 
courteous  at  first,  but  my  apology  is 
that  I  had  never  seen  anybody  in  just 
that  plight  before.  I  shall  know  how 
to  act  next  time." 

"I  am  resolved  there  shall  be  no 
next  time  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
and  I  must  exact  a  promise  of  you 
not  to  tell  of  this,  for  it  is  really  too 
ridiculous,  and  I  should  never  hear 
the  last  of  it." 

Would  he  promise  ?  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  man  who  would  not  prom 
ise  anything  under  such  circum 
stances?  He  only  wished  there  were 
a  thousand  secrets  to  be  kept  for  her 
instead  of  one,  or  something  desperate 
and  heroic  to  be  done.  He  would  at 
that  moment  have  taken  an  oath  not 
to  speak  at  all  for  a  month  if  she  had 
so  much  as  remotely  hinted  that  such 


22 


In  While  and  Black. 


a  thing1  was  desirable,  though  he  would 
have  broken  it  in  an  hour. 

They  had  reached  the  little  path 
leading  up  the  steep  slope  to  the  rear 
g-arden  gate  of  the  Melton  mansion. 
Here  Lawrance  said  good  evening 
amid  thanks,  and  they  parted.  He 
had  thought  of  many  fine  things  that 
might  be  said,  but  usually  the  fine 
things  that  might  be  said  are  never 
said.  They  are  either  afterthoughts 
or  only  forethoughts.  Most  people 
can  testify  that  not  only  the  things 
that  might  have  been  are  sad,  but  also 
the  things  that  might  have  been  said. 
Lawrance  had  thought  of  Andromeda 
chained  to  the  rock,  but  she  had  her 
Perseus,  and  that  spoilt  it  for  his  use 
on  this  occasion.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  youth  who  saw  the  reflection 
of  his  own  face  in  the  water  and  be 
came  enamored  of  its  beauty — yes,  it 
was  Narcissus — but  he  couldn't  make 
it  fit.  He  thought  of  Crusoe  and  of 
a  couplet  that  he  had  somewhere  read 
about  a  "sea-girt  rock,"  but  the  whole 
opportunity  slipped  by  without  his 
once  displaying  his  erudition.  He  had 


A  Novel  Introduction.          23 

talked  plain  prose ;  it  seemed  to  him 
about  the  prosiest  prose  that  he  had 
ever  been  guilty  of  using.  He  saw 
Dora  bound  up  the  path  with  tread 
quick  and  light,  such  as  belongs  to  all 
innocent  and  happy  beings';  he  saw 
her  lithe,  graceful  form  outlined 
against  the  darkening  sky  and  heard 
her  musical  voice  still  sounding  in  his 
ears. 

Lawrance,  a  knotty  problem  con 
fronts  you.  Toil  at  it  in  the  deepen 
ing  twilight,  but  think  not  to  solve  it 
till  innumerable  twilights  and  no 
lights  but  unillumined  midnights  have 
passed  you  by.  You  arc  in  love. 
Deny  it  as  you  may,  pshaw!  at  it,  as 
you  no  doubt  are  doing  at  this  mo 
ment  there  on  the  edge  of  the  night, 
you  can  never  be  as  you  were.  The 
fatal  arrow  has  struck  home  and  quiv 
ers  deep-buried  in  your  heart — so  deep 
that  when  it  is  drawn  the  torn  heart 
will  come  with  it.  That  sweetest,  bit 
terest  chapter  in  life's  volume  has 
been  begun  and  must  be  written  out 
to  the  last  syllable,  whatever  the  end 
may  be.  It  is  the  chapter,  though 


24          In  White  and  Black. 

blotted  with  tears,  that  gives  all  co 
herence  to  the  story  of  life,  without 
which  it  were  an  enigma,  all  meaning 
less  and  undecipherable. 

After  the  episode  of  the  rescue, 
Dora  and  Lawrance  met  occasionally 
on  the  footing  of  acquaintances.  The 
memory  of  the  accident  that  brought 
them  face  to  face  was  sufficiently 
amusing  to  cause  a  smile  when  they 
met,  and  the  consciousness  of  a  secret, 
small  and  insignificant  as  it  was, 
served  to  put  them  on  good  terms. 

It  was  not  long  till  he  had  an  oppor 
tunity  of  seeing  her  in  her  own  home. 
It  was  a  theory  of  Mr.  Melton's  that 
a  young  man  fit  for  his  employ  was 
also  fit  for  his  companionship,  and 
that  the  hospitality  one  shows  to  his 
friends  as  a  pleasure  to  himself  ought 
to  be  extended  to  his  employees  as  a 
duty  to  them.  He  lived  up  to  his 
theory  and  occasionally  invited  his 
clerks  and  bookkeepers  to  take  tea 
with  him,  and  so  threw  over  their 
lives  the  genial  influence  of  that  far- 
famed  Southern  hospitality.  He  in 
vited  Lawrance  with  one  or  two  others. 


A  Novel  Introduction.          25 

Here  he  saw  Dora  in  her  best  element, 
at  home,  and  in  her  most  agreeable 
mood.  Naturally  quick-witted  and 
sunny,  she  was  always  agreeable;  but 
here,  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  home, 
all  her  graces  blossomed  to  perfection. 
On  this  particular  evening  she  was 
unusually  interesting.  She  liked  Law- 
ranee;  he  pleased  her.  Further  than 
that  she  had  not  so  much  as  thought, 
that  is  if  people  understand  what  they 
think.  Let  us  frankly  acknowledge 
ourselves  incapable  of  fathoming  the 
commonest  things.  The  swift  and 
subtle  influences  that  make  for  destiny 
we  may  not  trace  nor  explain.  The 
merest  accident  may  turn  the  tide  of 
a  life  for  good  or  ill.  While  we  eat 
and  drink  and  chaffer  and  trade,  the 
swift  shuttles  are  flying  through  the 
woof  of  life.  We  only  know  it  when 
it  is  done.  To  describe  the  nimble 
hours  of  delight  passed,  all  too  quickly, 
at  that  home  on  that  memorable  even 
ing  would  be  to  describe  a  thousand 
of  the  same  kind  as  they  appear  on 
the  surface.  That  would  be  prosy, 
but  the  reality  was  anything  else  but 


26          In  White  and  Black. 

prosy,  and  the  result  will  take  time  to 
tell. 

That  night  Lawrance  returned  to 
his  room  in  a  delightful  state  of  ex 
citement.  He  frankly  acknowledged 
himself  in  love.  He  even  went  so  far 
as  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was 
loved  in  return.  Such  is  the  beautiful 
confidence  of  love  in  its  infancy;  but 
alas!  it  soon  outgrows  that.  The  lit 
tle  sleep  that  fell  on  his  eyelids  that 
night  was  filled  with  dreams  of  Dora. 
When  he  awoke  his  mood  had 
changed.  He  saw  things  in  a  soberer 
light — if  second  thoughts  are  always 
soberer,  which  we  gravely  doubt,  for 
thinking  itself  sometimes  intoxicates 
and  the  judgment  is  blurred.  The 
soul  often  soars  on  the  wings  of  a 
sudden  inspiration  to  heights  of  truth 
that  it  can  never  reach  by  slow  plod 
ding.  At  any  rate,  Lawrance  got  back 
to  a  state  of  doubt  and  misery,  and 
we  call  that  sober — perhaps  because 
it  is  stupid.  What  a  fool  he  had  been, 
he  thought,  to  fancy  that  petted  daugh 
ter  of  a  rich,  aristocratic  father  fairly 
throwing  herself  into  the  arms  of  a 


A  Novel  Introduction.          27 

poor  dog"  with  neither  wealth,  wit  nor 
pedigree  to  commend  him,  and  on 
short  acquaintance  at  that!  A  romp 
ing,  good-natured  girl  had  treated  him 
kindly — probably  only  because  she 
was  good-natured — and  straightway 
he  had  built  a  fairy  palace  such  as 
Grimm  never  dreamed  of .  He  did  what 
most  •  of  us  have  done— laughed  at 
himself,  bantered  himself,  called  him 
self  names  and  strove  to  whip  himself 
into  what  he  considered  a  sensible 
frame  of  mind.  In  reality  he  suc 
ceeded  in  bringing  himself  down  to 
the  level  of  ordinary  stupidity.  This 
ox-like  nature  of  ours  refuses  to  be 
driven  at  a  breakneck  speed,  but  must 
pause  and  browse  amid  the  brambles 
of  the  prosaic  now  and  then. 

By  breakfast  time  Lawrance  fancied 
himself  tolerably  rational.  He  had 
resolved,  as  thousands  before  had 
done,  not  to  make  a  fool  of  himself — 
a  resolution  as  vain  for  him  as  it  had 
been  for  all  the  other  thousands.  Dur 
ing  the  day  he  had  made  no  less  than 
a  dozen  false  entries.  He  could  not 
add  the  simplest  column  of  figures. 


jo  In  White  and  Black. 

to  her  the  charm  of  picturesqueness. 
She  was  brought  up  with  Dora's  moth 
er,  and  Dora  had  been  largely  brought 
up  by  her.  She  knew  little  of  freedom 
1  and  cared  less.  She  held  strenuously 
by  the  old  traditions  and  had  a  hearty 
contempt  for  the  new  regime.  She 
was  house-girl  to  Mrs.  Melton  from 
the  time  of  her  marriage  and  became 
nurse  and  "black  Mammie"  to  Dora, 
which  office  was  a  prouder  one  to  her 
than  that  of  empress  would  have  been. 
Happiness  consists,  according  to  Mr. 
Carlyle,  not  so  much  in  increasing  the 
numerator  of  the  human  fraction  as  in 
decreasing  the  denominator.  Think 
you  deserve  to  be  hanged  and  you 
will  count  it  a  luxury  to  be  shot.  Aunt 
Lylie's  office  filled  the  measure  of  her 
ambition.  To  serve  in  it  to  the  end 
was  her  sole  purpose.  Larger  ques 
tions  did  not  trouble  her  mind.  To 
her  there  were  no  larger  questions. 
That  one  home  was  her  world,  and 
Dora  was  its  sovereign. 

When  Mr.  Melton  came  to  Dora's 
room  immediately  after  news  of  the 
Emancipation  Proclamation  reached 


A  Darkey  of  The  Old  School.  31 

him,  he  found  Aunt  Lylie  assisting  his 
daughter  to  ma!:e  her  morning-  toilet, 
in  spite  of  .the  protest  of  that  spirited 
girl.  Through  the  open  door  from 
the  hall  he  could  see  her  kneeling  to 
tie  Dora's  shoes,  and  he  stopped  to 
listen  to  Aunt  Lylie  :  "What  fur  you 
gittin  dese  new  fanglesome  notions 
in  yo'  liT  haid,  dat  you  gwine  do  fo' 
yo'se'f?  Doan  you  know  dem  liT 
white  han's  wa'n't  made  fur  wuk  no 
how?  Yo'  ole  black  Mammie  ain't 
gwine  'low  you  to  do  no  drubbery 
while  dese  ole  han's  kin  do  fur  you.  I 
heahs  mighty  cu'ious  things  bout  nig- 
gahs  gwine  be  free,  and  dey  gittin  so 
no'  count  dese  days  I  'spec'  heap  o' 
white  folks  got  to  be  up  an'  doin',  but 
you  ain't,  long  as  ole  black  Mammie's 
stren't'  hoi'  out." 

Such  was  her  devotion  to  an  insti 
tution  that  seemed  so  eminently  prop 
er  to  her  simple  mind.  While  she  was 
speaking,  Mr.  Melton  was  thinking 
whether  it  was  wise,  even  humane,  to 
thrust  on  these  people  freedom  with 
its  accompanying  problem  of  self-sup 
port.  The  scene  before  him  brought 


32  In  While  and  Black. 

up  the  tender,  beautiful  past,  and  set 
him  to  thinking"  of  the  future  with  its 
changed  relations  and  its  unsolved 
problems.  His  people  had  conquered 
the  wild  forests  of  the  Southland  and 
built  a  civilization  of  which  he  was 
justly  proud.  It  was  not  perfect,  this 
he  acknowledged ;  perhaps  slavery  was 
not  the  least  of  its  imperfections,  but 
as  he  looked  upon  Aunt  Lylie  that 
morning,  he  felt  in  his  heart  that  her 
condition  was  not  to  be  bettered  by 
this  change.  He  and  his  people  must 
now  begin  anew,  and  work  out  a  hard 
er  problem  than  has  yet  faced  any 
people.  There  was  many  a  Southern 
home  that  morning  in  which  the  scene 
was  duplicated. 

Something  else  was  smitten  besides 
the  shackles  of  slavery,  something  else 
felt  the  thunderblow  of  the  Procla 
mation  besides  the  foundations  of  a 
much-hated  institution.  Many  a  tie, 
only  a  little  less  tender  than  those  of 
blood,  snapped  under  the  penstrokeof 
Abraham  Lincoln,  and  many  a  faith 
ful  heart  quivered  with  anguish.  If  it 


A  Darkey  of  The  Old  School.  33 

was  the  birth-hour  of  a  race  it  was  not 
without  travail. 

Mr.  Melton  tried  to  speak  cheer 
fully. 

"Well,  Lylie,  I  have  good  news  for 
you?  The  jubilee  that  I  have  heard 
the  darkies  sing-  about  has  come.  You 
are  free  now,  all  the  negroes  are  free. 
Abraham  Lincoln  yesterday  signed 
the  Proclamation  which  gives  freedom 
to  all  the  slaves  in  the  country.  Yes 
terday  you  belonged  to  me,  to-day 
you  can  go  where  you  will,  do  as  you 
choose." 

She  had  listened  with  mouth  and 
eyes  opening  wider  and  wider  till  he 
finished,  then  she  broke  out:  "What 
MarsLinkum  got  to  do  widus?  'Spec' 
he  better  'ten'  to  his  own  niggahs. 
Sides,  I  doan'  know  him,  nebber  seed 
'im;  but  I  knows  you,  Mars  George,  an' 
I  knows  my  li'l  lam,  'ere,  an  I  ain'  axin 
nobody  to  cum  pryin'  'roun'  udder 
folk's  bisness  what  doan  consarnum." 

He  explained  to  her  as  best  he  could 
how  it  all  came  about,  and  how  all  the 
darkies  in  the  neighborhood  were  re 
joicing,  and  leaving  their  old  masters 


34          In  White  and  Black. 

and  mistresses  to  enjoy  their  new  free 
dom. 

She  replied  in  a  tone  of  lofty  con 
tempt:  "I  bin  hear  niggahs  talk  'bout 
what  gwine  happen,  and  how  dem 
yankees  gwine  sot  us  free.  But  I 
'low'd  ef  dey  talkin'  'bout  dat  blue-coat 
trash  what  bin  prowlin'  'roun'  de  ken- 
try,  killin'  de  chickens,  ca'yin'  off  de 
bosses,  an'  bu'nin'  houses,  an'  libin' 
of'n  de  hard  arnins  of  dem  what  wuk 
fur  it,  lain'  'spectin'  muchfum  um,  an' 
I  ain'  nudder.  Ef  niggahs  ain'  got 
no  mo'  sense  en  ter  take  arter  ev'y 
jack-o-molantern  what  comes  'long 
twel  hit  leads  um  in  a  swamp,  dey  kin 
go.  Ole  Lylie  ain'  tekin'  up  wid  no 
sich.  Heah  I  is,  an'  heahlgwinestay 
'cepin' you  dribe  me  off,  ain'  I,  honey?" 
Here  she  looked  appealingly  into  the 
face  of  Dora  who  all  this  time  had 
been  sitting  silent,  astonishment,  pain 
and  indignation  mingling  in  her  face. 
She  threw  her  arms  around  the  old 
negro's  neck  for  answer  and  the  tears 
fell  while  the  black  hands  stroked  her 
sunny  hair,  and  as  her  master  turned 
away  he  heard  Aunt  Lylie  murmur: 


A  Darkey  of  The  Old  School.  35 

"Ole  black  Mammie  won'  leab  you, 
honey,  case  she  dun  tole  yo  mudder 
she  won't." 

From  that  day  it  was  settled.  Her 
ear  was  not  bored  through  with  an 
awl,  there  was  no  new  bill  of  sale,  but 
only  the  heart  gave  its  seal  to  the  most 
real  as  well  as  the  noblest  bondage, 
and  she  was  still  a  slave.  An  empire 
could  not  have  tempted  her  away. 
Proclamations  may  change  institu 
tions,  wars  may  break  the  course  of 
empires,  but  the  mysterious  kingdom 
of  the  human  heart,  be  it  of  Puritan  or 
Cavalier,  of  white  or  black,  defies  alike 
presidents  and  potentates,  congresses 
and  armies. 

Mrs.  Melton  on  her  death-bed  had 
committed  her  daughter  to  the  care  of 
her  faithful  servant.  Aunt  Lylie  had 
assumed  the  charge  with  the  double 
ardor  born  of  her  devotion  to  her  de 
parted  mistress  and  her  tender  love 
for  Dora.  She  lingered  by  the  bed 
side  of  her  dying  mistress  to  the  last, 
watchful  of  every  opportunity  to 
smooth  the  way  for  the  feet  she  loved. 
It  was  she  who  composed  the  lifeless 


36          In  White  and  Black. 

form,  straightened  the  pillows,  tucked 
the  cover  as  she  had  done  a  thousand 
times  before  for  the  living-,  with  won 
derful  composure,  and,  stroking-  the 
white  forehead,  said  tenderly,  "Dar 
now,  honey,"  then  turned  and  almost 
fled  from  the  room.  When  she  reached 
her  own  room  a  shriek  broke  from 
her  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit,  and 
throwing  herself  across  the  bed  she 
poured  out  her  soul  in  a  grief  as  gen 
uine  as  ever  broke  a  human  heart. 
She  followed  the  body  to  the  grave, 
kept  careful  watch  that  no  speck  of 
dust  was  on  the  coffin,  and  groaned 
when  the  pall-bearers  made  a  false 
step,  as  if  they  had  trod  on  her  heart. 
As  the  procession  passed  out  of  the 
house  she  slipped  aside  and  pulled  a 
bunch  of  lilacs.  When  the  grave  was 
filled,  and  the  mourners  filed  away, 
she  lingered  with  bowed  head  till  the 
last  had  departed.  Then  approaching 
the  grave  she  knelt  and  deposited  her 
bunch  of  lilacs  near  the  head,  saying 
between  her  sobs:  "I  brung  um  fur 
you,  honey,  kase  you  loved  um  so,  an' 
I  members  you  tole  me  de  name  ob 


A  Darkey  of  The  Old  School.  37 

urn  mos'  same  as  mine.  I  knowed 
you'd  love  to  have  one  liT  flower  on 
yo'  grabe  from  the  han'  o'  yo'  po' 
Lylie.  I  doan  know  how  'tis,  but  ef 
you  kin  he'p  a  body  fum  wha'  you  is, 
he'p  me  to  stan'  by  de  po'  li'l  lam', 
kase  I  gwine  do  my  best  fur  'er,  and 
bofe  un  us  gwine  come  on  arter 
'while." 

That  night  she  tucked  the  mother 
less  girl  away  in  bed  and  sat  by  her  side 
tillshe  fancied  her  asleep, saying- to  her 
all  the  comforting  things  she  could 
command,  telling  her  beautiful  things 
about  her  mother  and  assuring  her 
that  "de  same  eyes  what  wep'  at  de 
grabe  o'  Laz'rus  lookin'  at  us  an' 
countin'  our  tears  sameas  a  boy  counts 
'is  marbles,  an'  he  ain't  gwine  leab  us 
tell  he  put  us  'longside  o'  yo'  mud- 
der,  whar  dey  doan  weep  no  mo'." 

When  she  thought  Dora  was  asleep, 
she  knelt  by  the  bed  before  going  to 
her  own  pallet  in  the  same  room,  and 
in  a  low  voice  began  to  pray: 

"O  Lawd,  sometimes  hit  seem  lack 
you  fur  away  lack  de  stars,  an'  you 
doan  hear  us  when  de  heart's  hebby 


38  In  While  and  Black. 

an'  sad,  but  now  hit  pear  lack  you's 
mighty  close  to  me  an'  Dodie,  an'  you 
makin'  her  furgit  her  sorrer  in  sleep 
an'  comfortin'  me  in  de  darkness.  We 
heard  tell  how  you  cums  close  in  time 
o'  trubble,  an'  it's  true,  an'  you  kin  he'p 
a  po'  body  lack  me,  an'  put  yo'  arms 
'roun'  dis  mudderless  chile,  same  as  ef 
we's  wise  an'  great.  Lawd,  we's 
mighty  feeble  an'  de  light  ob  our  eyes 
dun  put  out  wid  weepin',  an'  we  so 
lonesone  'dout  mistiss.  We  doan 
know  whar  she  is,  but  we  know  she 
whar  you  is,  fur  she  was  good  an'  she 
tole  us  she  gwine  be  wid  you.  Lawd, 
could  you  jes  tell  'er  fur  po'  ole  Lylie 
dat  I  right  here  by  her  chile  tryin'  to 
shie!'  'er  fum  de  trubble  an'  dat  I 
prayin'  fur  'er  while  she  sleepin'.  De 
worl'.so  big  and  wide  an'  de  way  so 
rough  fur  de  feet  ob  dem  what  ain't 
got  no  mudder  to  lead  um,  please  be 
good  to  dis  po'  chile.  Ef  you  do  haf 
to  sen'  trubble,  sen'  it  on  me;  when  de 
bow's  bent  let  de  arrer  strike  dis  bres', 
but  keep  dis  chile  fum  de  pain.  Lawd, 
he'p  me,  so  Ole  Mistiss  '11  be  satisfied. 
Doan  lemme  make  no  blunders,  and 


A  Darkey  of  The  Old  School.  39 

when  my  eyes  can't  see  de  way  take 
me  byde  ban'  an'  lead  me,  an'  I'll  lead 
de  lam'  wid  de  udder  ban'.  Bless  Ole 
Marster,  fur  his  heart's  dun  bruk,  an' 
doan  le'm  furgit  de  promus  dat  he 
gwine  meet  Ole  Mistiss  at  las'.  Ef 
you  kin,  let  'er  come  sometime  an' 
kine  o'  tech  'im  wid  'er  wing  an' some 
how  say  sof  lack,  Tm  here'. 

"An  Lawd,  fix  a  place  fur  us,  fur  we 
all  cummin  by'm-by.  When  de  HT 
lam'  git  settled  and  fixed,  an'  de  way 
git  clar  fo'  'er  feet,  an'  she  doan  need 
me  no'  mo',  den  lemme  come  to  Mis 
tiss  an'  he'p  git  ev'ything  ready  fur 
Dodie,  fur  I  want  to  have  a  han'  in 
m  a  k  i  n'  things  tidy  fur  'er  fo  she 
comes." 

Then  she  gave  a  few  additional 
touches  to  the  cover  and  stole  to  her 
pallet  and  lay  down.  Peaceful  and 
prayerful  center  this,  where,  in  the 
beauty  of  confidence  and  fidelity,  these 
two  lie  sleeping,  while  war  and  strife 
resound  without. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT   CAME   OF  A    LAWN   PARTY. 

When  Lawrance  Kenyon  received 
an  invitation  to  a  lawn  party  to  be 
given  by  Miss  Dora  Melton  on  the 
evening  of  the  first  of  May,  he  was 
not  philosopher  enough  to  take  it 
calmly.  He  had  tried  to  persuade 
himself  to  think  no  more  of  Dora  and 
had,  he  vainly  imagined,  succeeded  to 
a  tolerable  degree.  He  had  worked, 
or  tried  to  work,  more  industriously 
and  study  more  constantly.  But  those 
who  have  tried  it  will  not  be  hard  on 
him  if  it  is  openly  confessed  that  he 
found  it  difficult  to  supplant  the  sweet 
image  of  Dora  with  figures  in  a  ledger 
or  to  exchange  the  radiant  dreams 
of  love  for  the  deep  things  of  legal 
lore.  That  period  has  come,  or  if  it 
has  not,  come  it  will  to  us  all,  when  the 
interests  and  energies  of  life  gather 
about  one  object,  when  the  soul's 


40 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Party.  41 

whole  empire  falls  under  one  scepter, 
and  the  will  is  powerless  to  break  the 
soothing"  sway  or  expel  the  pleasing 
tyrant.  Once  the  heart  is  caught  in 
the  meshes  of  that  silken  but  powerful 
net,  struggle  is  not  only  vain  and  use 
less  but  it  tightens  the  fatal  web  more 
and  more  about  its  victim.  Lawrance 
Kenyon  was  weary  with  his  fruitless 
struggles.  He  had  not  yet  consented 
to  surrender,  nor  had  he  yielded  to  the 
thought  that  Dora  was  absolutely  es 
sential  to  his  happiness.  When,  how 
ever,  he  received  the  invitation  and 
decided  to  go,  all  his  bulwarks  gave 
way  and  his  wise  maxims  went  down 
like  reeds  before  a  flood.  When  he 
was  dressed  and  ready  to  go  he  hesi 
tated.  His  heart  beat  violently,  his 
hand  trembled,  and  he  was  angry  with 
himself  for  his  unusual  agitation.  For 
the  fortieth  time  he  looked  in  the  glass 
and  adjusted  his  tie,  not  that  he  saw 
any  need  of  it,  or,  for  that  matter,  knew 
what  he  did,  but  because  there  was 
nothing  else  to  occupy  his  time.  Sev 
eral  times  he  resolved  not  to  go,  but 
he  ought  to  have  known  beforehand 


42  In  White  and  Black* 

that  such  resolutions  were  vain  and 
futile. 

When  he  reached  the  front  gate  he 
beheld  before  him  a  brilliant  and  beau 
tiful  scene.  Along  the  line  of  maples 
on  either  side  of  the  gravel  walk  were 
festoons  of  bunting,  and  many-colored 
Chinese  lanterns  hung  beneath  the 
boughs.  On  the  spacious  lawn  to  the 
left  merry  young  people  were  flitting 
to  and  fro  like  so  many  birds.  The 
moon  was  just  rising,  and  its  full  tide 
of  mellow  light  fell  on  the  east-looking 
porch,  whose  tall  white  Corinthian 
columns  gleamed  through  the  fresh 
young  foliage.  Lawrance  paused  to 
take  in  the  scene.  It  seemed  to  him  a 
fitting  scene  as  a  background  for  Dora, 
but  only  a  background,  for  to  him  all 
he  saw  of  things  and  people  had  no 
meaning  except  as  they  were  con 
nected  with  her.  It  was  in  perfect 
keeping  with  his  conception  of  her  that 
she  should  receive  her  friends  under 
nature's  starry  blue  and  with  nature's 
dewy  green  beneath  their  feet.  As  his 
eyes  sought  through  the  lawn  for  the 
central  figure  of  the  picture,  he  saw 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Party.  43 

her  enter  the  house  alone.  Quickly 
he  entered  the  gate  and  hastened  up 
the  walk.  What  his  intentions  were 
he  scarcely  knew,  but  somehow  there 
was  a  wild,  intense  wish  in  his  heart  to 
meet  Dora  alone.  He  did  not  mean 
to  say  anything  more  than  the  most 
common-place  things,  such  things  as 
would  be  said  to  her  by  a  score  of 
people  that  evening,  but  to  speak  to 
her  alone,  with  no  other  ear  to  hear, 
would  be  a  great  happiness  to  him. 
Close  to  the  porch  stood  a  beech  whose 
boughs  reached  to  the  roof  and  formed 
a  sort  of  nature's  porte  cochere.  As 
he  approached  this  tree  Lawrance 
paused  to  calm  his  excited  nerves  and 
to  decide  whether  to  enter  the  house 
or  to  wait  for  Dora's  return,  which  he 
was  sure  would  not  be  long.  Before 
he  had  time  to  collect  himself  she  came 
across  the  porch,  and  hurrying  forward 
as  she  came  down  the  steps  humming 
a  tune,  he  met  her  just  in  the  shadow 
of  the  big  beech.  When  he  saw  her 
come  out  on  the  porch  his  whole  being 
thrilled  with  admiration,  and  as  she 
drew  nearer,  his  emotion  approached 


44  IH  White  and  Black. 

closely  to  adoration.  She  was  simply 
dressed,  but  in  exquisite  taste.  There 
was  a  single  rose  in  her  hair  and  an 
other  at  her  throat.  Those  were  her 
only  ornaments.  She  had  just  thrown 
loosely  around  her  shoulders  a  light 
wrap  which  she  had  not  yet  adjusted, 
and  she  looked  like  a  bird  with  plumage 
ruffled  from  excess  of  joy.  Lawrance 
had  never  seen  even  her  look  half  so 
beautiful.  Had  he  been  seeking  for 
a  picture  of  perfect  loveliness  he  could 
have  wished  no  more.  He  simply  did 
what  was  inevitable,  what  he  must  do, 
surrender  himself  a  complete  captive 
to  her  charms.  What  else  he  did  or  said 
he  scarcely  knew.  He  only  knew  that 
this  was  Dora  and  that  they  were  face 
to  face  alone.  He  stepped  forward, 
extended  his  hand,  which  she  took 
with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  and 
in  the  half-light  Lawrance  detected 
the  blush  that  mantled  her  cheeks. 

Powder  wants  only  a  spark  to  ex 
plode,  love  wants  only  an  oppor 
tunity  to  speak.  They  were  unob 
served  by  the  guests  who  were  gath 
ered  in  a  distant  part  of  the  lawn,  and 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Party.  45 

his  entrance  had  not  been  noticed. 
Under  the  lace-like  leaves  of  the 
beech,  in  the  moonlight,  the  awkward, 
eloquent  story,  old  as  the  race  yet  ever 
new  as  the  untrod  continent  of  human 
experience,  was  told.  He  seized  her 
hand,  but  that  was  the  only  greeting. 
The  anticipated  commonplaces  his 
lips  refused.  The  only  speech  to  which 
they  would  lend  themselves  was  to 
voice  the  secret  that  was  burning-  in 
his  heart:  "Dora,  forgive  me,  but  I 
love  you.  Since  I  first  saw  you  your 
image  has  been  in  my  heart,  your  name 
on  my  lips.  Thoughts  of  you  have 
filled  my  mind  waking  or  sleeping. 
When  I  have  thought  of  living  with 
out  you  my  heart  has  ached  with  un 
speakable  agony.  When  I  have 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  calling 
you  my  own,  I  have  had  a  taste  of 
Paradise.  I  ask  no  more  than  the 
privilege  of  saying  I  love  you.  Were 
the  barriers  between  us  ten  thousand 
times  what  they  are,  it  would  still  be  a 
sweet  solace  to  me  to  speak.  I  have 
nothing  to  offer  you  but  a  heart  that 
would  find  its  highest  happiness  in 


46          In  White  and  Black. 

shedding  its  blood  for  you,  no  merit 
to  plead  but  a  love  as  intense  and  pure 
as  ever  dwelt  in  human  bosom.  If  my 
love  is  wicked  it  is  only  because  it  is 
idolatry,  and  God  will  forgive  me  that, 
for  I  can  not  help  it.  I  am  poor,  I  am 
unknown,  I  am  nothing-,  and  till  this 
moment  I  have  laughed  at  the  thought 
of  telling  you  my  secret.  Now  it 
seems  to  me  if  you  would  trust  me, 
if  you  would  let  me  toil  and  strive  for 
your  sake,  I  could  conquer  worlds. 
Any  task  you  would  smile  on  would  be 
easy.  Without  you  my  life  is  blank. 
It  has  no  other  charm.  With  you  it 
would  be  enough  to  live,  to  toil,  so  that 
you  were  near.  O  Dora,  it  is  mad 
ness  to  speak  thus  to  you,  but  if  it  be 
so  it  is  the  madness  of  love.  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  one  word  of  this  to  you, 
but  when  I  saw  you  I  could  not  help 
it.  If  you  do  not,  can  not,  return  my 
love,  I  shall  not  blame  you.  Why 
should  you  care  for  me?  I  have  asked 
myself  this  question  a  thousand  times. 
Nevertheless,  I  shall  love  you  forever. 
Henceforth,  as  permanent  as  memory 
or  hope,  love  for  you  is  part  of  my 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Party.  47 

being1.  And  whatever  fate  decrees  for 
you  and  me,  remember  that  one  man 
will  adore  you  forever.  Do  not  speak 
yet.  I  am  afraid  your  words  would 
blast  my  hopes,  and  I  would  cherish 
yet  a  little  the  glimpse  of  Paradise  be 
fore  I  plunge  into  outer  darkness.  O 
Dora,  you  can  not  know  how  I  love 
you." 

He  had  spoken  rapidly,  passion 
ately,  all  the  time  holding  her  hand 
and  bending  his  face  close  to  hers. 
His  voice  was  low,  but  his  words  came 
like  arrows  from  the  string  of  a  taut 
bow.  His  soul  was  in  every  syllable, 
and  that  alone  is  eloquence.  Dora 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  beating 
of  his  heart  rather  than  to  words. 
There  was  that  light  in  her  eyes  while 
he  spoke  that  no  lover  can  mistake, 
and  her  quick  breath,  heaving  bosom 
and  cheek  that  grew  a  deeper  and 
deeper  crimson,  told  all  too  plainly  that 
the  story  had  fallen  on  willing1  ears. 
All  this  Lawrance  recalled  many  a 
time  in  the  lone  agony  of  other  days, 
and  then  he  could  feel  in  his  closed 
palm  the  twitching  of  her  fingers  as 


48          In  White  and  Black. 

distinctly  as  on  that  night.  Had  she 
known  what  was  to  follow,  how  freely 
she  would  have  spoken  out  of  her  own 
heart!  But  she  did  not  know;  alas,  we 
never  know.  There  was  a  moment 
of  silence,  a  whippoorwill  from  far 
across  the  woodland  shot  its  shrill 
staccato  into  the  night,  and  the  chirp 
of  crickets  kept  time  to  the  beating  of 
their  hearts. 

Dora  raised  her  eyes  full  to  his  and 
then  Lawrance  saw  distinctly  a  tear 
trembling  on  each  lid,  and  for  him 
there  was  heaven  in  those  tears. 
When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  calm 
and  her  speech  more  deliberate  than 
his  had  been,  but  it  was  tender  and 
tremulous: 

"Mr.  Kenyon,  I  should  be  insincere 
if  I  should  say  this  is  a  surprise.  I 
thought  it  would  be  so.  It  would  be 
more  than  insincere  for  me  to  pretend 
to  be  indifferent  to  what  you  have 
said.  More  I  may  not  say  now.  Wait 
till  to-morrow." 

"Say  I  may  hope  and  I  will  wait  a 
thousand  years,  if  I  must,"  said  Law 
rance. 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Party.  49 

"You    may  hope;  and  now  I  must 

BO." 

"May  I  call  to-morrow  evening-?" 

"Yes." 

Then  she  left  him  to  meet  some  of 
her  young  friends  that  were  seeking 
her. 

Lawrance  was  not  the  only  suitor  at 
the  lawn  party  that  evening-.  Later 
in  the  evening-  when  refreshments  had 
been  served  and  the  g-uests  were  prom 
enading-  about  the  lawn,  or  gathered 
in  twos,  or  in  small  groups  for  conver 
sation,  Roswell  Grantley  sought  Dora 
for  a  promenade.  He  was  one  of  the 
wealthy  young  men  of  the  town.  His 
father  was  for  a  long  time  a  private 
banker.  The  relation  between  him 
and  Dora's  father  had  been  of  the 
closest,  both  socially  and  commer 
cially.  When  the  father  died  a  few 
years  before,  Roswell  succeeded  to  the 
wealth  and  the  business  of  the  father. 
He  had  paid  some  attention  to  Dora 
since  her  return  from  school,  which  she 
had  received  from  courtesy  but  had 
not  encouraged  especially.  Still,  she 
was  glad  now  of  an  opportunity  to 


50          In  White  and  Black. 

speak  with  him.  There  was  something 
in  her  mind  she  wished  to  say  to  him. 
This  was  her  opportunity,  a  better  op 
portunity  than  she  anticipated.  They 
passed  across  the  lawn  towards  the 
garden  almost  in  silence.  When  they 
were  alone,  he  said: 

"Dora,  do  you  know  why  I  am  here 
to-night,  why  I  have  sought  to  speak 
to  you?  I  came  herewith  one  purpose. 
Since  I  came  that  purpose  has  grown 
stronger.  I  could  not  let  another  hour 
pass  without  carrying  it  out.  It  is  to 
offer  you  my  life;  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife.  The  happiness  of  my  future 
depends  on  your  decision.  I  have 
thought  of  you  in  that  light  ever  since 
you  were  a  wayward,  romping  girl. 
Since  your  return  from  school  it  has 
become  the  dominant  desire  of  my  life 
to  have  you  for  my  own,  and  I  have 
accustomed  myself  to  the  thought  that 
you  would  consent."  He  paused  for 
reply. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute. 

When  she  spoke  it  was  in  measured 
tones,  as  if  every  word  were  being 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Parly.  51 

weighed  and  tested.  They  were  like  so 
many  dagger-strokes. 

"Mr.  Grantley,"  she  said,  "I  must  be 
candid.  I  have  no  motive  to  be  other 
wise.  What  you  profess  to  desire 
can  never  be.  If  there  were  ever  a 
time  when  such  a  thing  were  even  re 
motely  possible,  that  time  is  past.  Yon 
der  with  the  crowd  is  a  woman  who 
was  my  playmate  ,in  childhood.  To 
gether  we  have  sat  for  hours  beneath 
these  branches  in  the  summer  after 
noons  watching  the  butterflies  among 
the  flowers.  They  call  woman's  friend 
ship  fickle  and  brief.  It  is  not  of 
such  material  ours  was  formed.  Hers 
is  a  pure  and  guileless  nature,  a  heart 
that  has  no  room  for  falsehood. 
When  I  heard  that  her  father  had 
lost  all  and  she,  brave,  noble  girl,  had 
thrown  herself  into  the  struggle,  even 
taking  a  position  as  governess  to  sup 
port  the  broken  old  man,  I  honored 
her,  I  loved  her  yet  the  more." 

"Dora,  why  will  you — ?"  He  spoke 
in  a  half-terrified  way,  but  with  an  im 
perious  gesture  she  stopped  him. 


52          In  White  and  Black. 

"Do  not  interrupt  me  please,  I  am  giv 
ing  you  my  answer.  When  I  learned 
through  her  letters,  always  confiding, 
that  you  had  wooed  and  won  that 
noble  heart,  if  it  threw  a  shadow  over 
some  girlish  fancies  of  my  own,  what 
of  it?  Let  that  pass.  You  won  that 
heart  com  pletely — for  what  ?  To  crush 
it  wantonly  as  you  crush  those  rose- 
petals  between  your  fingers  now,  to 
fling  it  away,  to  condemn  it  to  life 
long  disappointment  or  speedy  death." 

"For  God's  sake,  Dora!"  he  almost 
gasped,  but  she  went  on  not  heeding 
his  appeal. 

"When  I  saw  her  pale  cheek,  when 
I  heard  her  story,  when  I  pillowed  her 
head  on  my  bosom  and  felt  the  surg 
ing  of  her  sorrow,  do  you  count  it  a 
sin  that  my  resentment  awoke?  I  said 
then,  I  say  now,  you  are  false.  Were 
I  to  marry  you,  the  voice  of  my  moth 
er  who  taught  me  what  truth  and  hon 
or  are  would  accuse  me  from  behind 
yonder  stars  and  cry  in  my  ears, 
'Shame!  shame!'  Moreover,  the  pale 
sweet  face  of  that  girl  yonder  would 
haunt  me  to  my  grave,  and  my  own 


What  Came  of  a  Lawn  Party.  53 

conscience  would  condemn  me  for 
marrying"  a  man  whom  I  can  not  even 
respect." 

She  ceased  speaking-  and  a  sob  she 
could  not  longer  restrain  gave  empha 
sis  to  what  she  had  said.  The  laugh 
ter  of  the  guests  fell  on  their  ears. 

"Dora,  will  you  hear  me?  Do  you 
not  know  that  the  wayward  fancies  of 
the  heart  often  play  us  traitors  and 
lead  whither  the  judgment  can  not  fol 
low?  Do  not  most  people  have  some 
such  follies  to  regret?  And  who  knows 
whether  to  pity  or  to  blame!" 

"I  am  familiar,"  said  Dora,  "with 
the  code  that  governs  in  the  world  of 
show,  I  also  know  something  of  the 
eternal  principles  of  truth,  and  that 
there  are  hearts  that  are  not  wayward 
nor  fickle,  and  at  this  moment  there  is 
one  in  a  woman's  bosom  dying  for  a 
man  who  is  not  worthy  the  slightest 
pin-scratch  on  her  little  finger.  I  know 
also  one  manly  heart  that  would  suffer 
roasting  on  live  coals  before  it  would 
beat  false  to  a  woman's  trust,  but  it 
beats  in  another  bosom  than  yours." 


54          In  White  and  Black. 

"Dora,  Dora!"  came  from  the 
crowd,  and  she  turned  away. 

The  reader  has  already  seen  in  this 
chapter  the  grounds  of  the  conversa 
tion  bet  we  en  Ben  and  Aunt  Lylie 
given  in  the  first  chapter.  By  chance 
Ben  was  a  witness  to  the  first  scene, 
and  his  mother  saw  and  heard  the  sec* 
ond  courtship  with  an  interest  that  we 
are  afraid  would  have  prompted  her 
to  seek  by  stealth  what  accident  threw 
in  her  way. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WISE  COUNSEL  FROM  A  GOOD  SOURCE. 

It  was  long  after  Mr.  Melton  had 
taken  his  breakfast  alone  and  gone 
away  to  his  business,  when  Dora 
came  out  from  her  room.  The  events 
of  the  day  before  had  broken  in  on  the 
even  tenor  of  her  life  with  a  sudden 
ness  that  upset  her  nerves  not  a  little, 
and  it  was  very  late  before  she  slept, 
and  it  was  far  into  the  morning'  when 
she  awoke.  When  she  came  out  into 
the  yard,  a  scene  of  peace  and  beauty 
greeted  her  eyes.  The  sun  hung-  high 
up  in  the  cloudless  sky.  The  canary, 
whose  cage  hung  in  the  hall,  was  sing 
ing  as  if  the  world  depended  on  it. 
From  the  topmost  twig  of  the  big 
beech  a  mocking-bird  was  pouring 
forth  his  morning  hymn  in  a  perfect 
river  of  melody,  composed  of  rivulets 
from  all  the  mountain  heights  of  song- 
land.  High  on  the  wind-swayed 


56          In  White  and  Black. 

branch  of  a  sugar-maple  a  Baltimore 
oriole  seemed  struggling1  to  turn  the 
brilliant  colors  of  his  body  into  tink 
ling  snatches  of  song.  The  sun  was 
pouring  a  flood  of  glory  on  the  green 
of  the  pasture-lands  that  sloped  away 
to  the  westward,  and  sifting  through 
the  tender  leaves  it  wrought  a  patch 
work  of  gold  on  the  green  grass  be- 
neat-h,  studded  still  with  dew  that 
glinted  and  flashed  like  a  million  dia 
monds.  Dora  walked  out  and  stood 
beneath  the  same  boughs  that  had 
sheltered  her  and  her  lover  the  night 
before,  the  sunshine  on  her  hair,  and 
health  and  happiness  stamped  on  her 
fresh  young  face.  With  that  happi 
ness  was  a  nameless  something,  a 
touch  of  womanly  seriousness,  that  had 
only  come  there  in  the  last  few  hours, 
but  had  come  to  stay,  and  constituted 
a'  new  charm.  As  she  stood  there 
drinking  in  with  exquisite  relish  the 
balm  and  beauty  and  melody  of  na 
ture,  a  honey-bee,  on  the  hunt  for 
sweets,  lighted  on  her  hair,  and  when 
he  attempted  to  fly  away  he  had  be 
come  entangled  in  the  golden  meshes, 


Wise  Counsel  from  a  Good  Source.  57 

and  so  was  held  buzzing"  there  in  a 
most  exciting  and  warlike  fashion. 
Thanks  to  abundant  hair  Dora  was 
not  stung,  and  thanks  to  strong  nerves 
she  did  not  scream.  Aunt  Lylie  had 
come  to  the  kitchen  door  and  was 
looking"  at  Dora,  who  had  not  ob 
served  her.  These  two,  combining  the 
beautiful  and  the  picturesque,  were 
the  only  two  persons  about  the  place. 

"Honey,  whut  you  standin'  dar  fur 
stid  o'  comin'  fur  yo'  brekfus'  ?"  was 
her  greeting". 

"Come  quick  and  g"et  this  bee  out 
of  my  hair  or  I  shall  be  stung,"  said 
Dora,  holding"  her  charming  head  to 
one  side. 

Aunt  Lylie  hurried  to  meet  her  and 
with  a  dexterous  whisk  of  her  apron 
released  the  captive  bee  and   stood  ' 
looking  at  Dora  with  a  curious  air. 

"  Why  are  you  gazing"  at  me  in  that 
fashion  ?"  said  Dora,  affecting  impa 
tience.  "Why  don't  you  go  and  get  me 
some  breakfast?  I  am  hungry." 

'Ts  jes'a-thinkin'  you'sas  putty  as  a 
hollyhawk,  an'  dat  bee  not  de  only 
pusson  dat  gwine  to  git  tangled  up  in 


5<?          In  White  and  Black. 

yo'  looks  and  can't  git  away  when  he 
tries,"  and  laughing1  at  her  own  wit 
she  led  the  way  to  the  kitchen.  She 
had  not  told  all  she  was  thinking;  she 
was  thinking  of  Ben's  allusion  to  the 
bee  and  the  flower,  and  of  Dora  going" 
first  to  the  spot  where  the  story  was 
whispered  in  her  ears  the  night  before, 
and  of  that  new  something  on  her  face. 

Dora  followed  her  to  the  kitchen, 
where  she  was  to  eat  her  breakfast, 
for  the  dining-room  was  too  lonely. 
The  breakfast  had  been  kept  hot  and 
tempting  by  the  faithful  old  darkey, 
but  Dora  made  a  poor  pretense  of 
eating.  She  was  evidently  mistaken 
about  being  hungry. 

"Wha's  yo'  stomach  g-one  to  ?"  said 
Aunt  Lylie.  "You's  eatin'  lak  a 
mouse  wid  a  slow  fever." 

Dora  did  not  reply  but  sat  sipping1 
her  tea.  A  pair  of  nervous  little  spar 
rows  were  nesting1  in  a  Virginia 
creeper  that  Aunt  Lylie  had  trained 
over  the  kitchen  window.  Dora  was 
watching  their  pretty  ways,  when  one 
of  them  hopped  on  the  window-sill, 
and  turning  his  cunning  little  head  to 


Wise  Counsel  from  a  Good  Source.  59 

one  side  and  looking  straight  at  Dora 
piped,  "Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,"  then 
flew  away. 

"Dat  she  am,  honey,  sho',"  said 
Aunt  Lylie,  accepting  the  spontane 
ous  admiration  of  the  bird  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course.  In  her  idolatrous  eyes 
it  was  not  at  all  strange  that  birds 
and  bees  and  men  should  pay  homage 
at  Dora's  shrine. 

"What's  de  matter  ?"  asked  Aunt 
Lylie  after  a  few  moments  of  silence. 
"Sumpin'  dun  happin  to  you  or  else 
hit  gwine  to  happin,  kase  birds  and 
bees  and  sich  don't  take  a  lakin'  to 
nobody  fur  nothin'.  You  'member 
when  Ole  Mars  Jenkins  died,  a  bee 
come  an'  lit  on  'is  coffin  an'  buzzed 
an'  buzzed  tell  dey  driv  it  away  ?  He 
was  a  bee-hunter  an'  dcy  knowed  'e 
wa'n't  gwine  ter  hunt  um  no  mo'. 
'Tain't  all  in  de  books,  chile,  an'  you's 
got  sumpin'  on  yo'  mind."  This  was 
said  in  a  serious  tone,  partly  because 
she  believed  in  such  things,  but  more 
because  she  wanted  to  conceal  the 
real  source  of  her  suspicions.  She 
had  a  strategist's  pride  in  getting  at 


60          In  White  and  Black. 

the  secret  in  her  own  way,  and  still 
more  pride  in  testing  the  confidence  of 
her  young  mistress.  She  clinched  it 
all  with,  "My  lammie  ain't  got  no 
mudder  to  pertect  'er,  an'  I  promus 
Ole  Mistiss  I  gwine  ter  do  de  bes'  I  can 
fur  you." 

It  would  have  been  out  of  the  ques 
tion  to  withhold  confidence  after  that 
last  remark.  "Mammie,  if  you  had  a 
chance  to  marry  a  rich  banker  or  a 
poor  bookkeeper,  which  one  would 
you  take  ?"  was  Dora's  reply. 

"Law  sakes,  honey,  whut  makes  you 
ax  me  dat  ?" 

"You  see,"  said  Dora,  looking  out  at 
the  window,  and  speaking  as  much  to 
herself  as  to  her  interested  auditor,  "I 
am  a  curious  body  and  do  not  do 
things  as  other  people  do.  Perhaps 
it  would  have  been  the  thing  for  me 
to  fall  in  love  with  that  Boston  profes 
sor,  who  knew  everything  and  wore 
an  eye-glass,  but  was  possessed  of 
enough  of  the  weakness  of  common 
mortals  to  fall  in  love  with  what  he 
was  pleased  to  call  a  Southern  beauty, 


Wise  Counsel  from  a  Good  Source.  61 

when  he  ought  to  have  been  thinking 
of  Greek  roots  and  Latin  metre." 

Aunt  Lylie  could  stand  this  no 
longer  and  so  broke  in  with,  "  Whut's 
all  dat  you  sayin'?  I  ain't  keepin' 
up  wid  you." 

But  Dora  went  on  without  heeding" 
the  interruption.  "My  Auntie  in  Bos 
ton  thought  so,  and  I  halfway  thought 
so  too;  but  it  was  not  to  be.  Now  I 
have  a  chance  at  a  banker,  andjby  all 
the  rules  of  good  society  I  ought  to 
jump  at  the  chance,  but  I  just  can't 
jump  that  way.  I  suppose  I  should 
have  a  carriage  and  no  end  of  fine 
things,  and  be  the  envy  of  all  my 
friends;  but  I  prefer  a  sound  heart 
and  a  clear  conscience.  I  don't  love 
the  banker,  and  I  can't  marry  him.  I 
prefer  a  bookkeeper,  with  no  family 
to  prate  about  eternally;  no  money  to 
make  a  fool  of  him;  no  great  lot  of 
book-learning  to  bore  people  with; 
with  nothing  but  a  brave,  true  heart 
and  courage  to  face  life  and  meet  its 
foes  without  quailing."  And  so  she  had 
shaped  into  words  what  was  running 
in  her  mind  as  she  stood  under  the 


62          In  White  and  Black. 

beech,  and  Aunt  Lylie  was  compelled 
to  listen  to  what  she  only  halfway  un 
derstood.  Then  as  if  she  had  been 
serious  too  long"  already,  the  wayward 
T  girl  jumped  up  with  a  burst  of  laugh 
ter  and  went  waltzing  around  the 
room  like  a  merry-hearted  child.  The 
child  had  got  the  better  of  the  woman 
for  a  brief  space.  Stopping  in  front 
of  the  door  she  began  to  sing: 

"I  love  the  merry,  merry  sunshine, 
It  makes  me  feel  so  gay  ..." 

Then  the  song  was  changed  into  a 
laugh  as  hearty  and  as  musical  as  was 
the  song.  A  pair  of  hens  had  run 
towards  her  singing  each  in  her  own 
key,  as  if  joining  in  the  song.  "Look/' 
said  she,  "what  an  audience  I  have.  I 
must  be  a  regular  prima  donna,  don't 
you  think,  Mammie  ?" 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  no 
preeny  donnies,  but  I  knows  dem  dom- 
ineckers  mighty  good  layers,  do,"  was 
the  answer  that  showed  how  well  Aunt 
Lylie  understood.  She  added,  "I 
spec,'  do,  you  better  come  an'  le's  see 
whut  we  gwine  do  'bout  dat  business." 

Dora  sat  down  again.     She  looked 


Wise  Counsel  from  a  Good  Source.  63 

into  the  old  black  face  before  her  with 
an  expression  which  said  as  plain  as 
words  could  have  said  it,  "Now  you 
are  going  to  amuse  me,"  and  the  ex 
pression  misrepresented  the  facts  just 
as  words  might  do,  for  Dora  had  rea 
son  to  trust  Aunt  Lylie's  head  and 
heart  for  something  far  more  serious 
than  amusement. 

Breathing  a  sigh  this  counselor  be 
gan:  "I  done  an'  'spec'  sumpin'  gwine 
happen.  When  you  fus'  come  home 
I  said,  'Oomp-oo-oo !  Mars  George 
shore  gwine  loose  dat  gal  an'  dat  soon, 
too.'  But,  honey,  how  you  know  Mars 
Kenyon  gwine  ax  you  to  have  'im  ?" 

She  forgot  that  Dora  had  not  men 
tioned  that  name,  so  had  Dora. 

"What  downright  impudence! 
Don't  you  think  it  likely  he  would?" 

"Zac'ly,  but  whut  you  spectin'  ain't 
always  whut  happen,  Whut  I  wants 
to  know  is,  how  you  knows  it,  den  I 
can  perceed." 

"Well  then,  because  he  has  already 
asked  me." 

"Laws  a' massy,  sho'  nuff,  sho'  nuff, 
an'  dat's  whut  de  signs  was  a  pintin' 


64          In  White  and  Black. 

to."  Then  the  old  face  saddened,  and 
the  head  moved  as  if  swayed  by  an 
unresting  thought,  while  tears  gath 
ered  thick  in  the  honest  eyes.  As 
that  which  she  knew  already  was 
brought  to  her  mind  afresh, emphasized 
by  the  confession  of  Dora,  the  mean 
ing  of  it  all  came  home  to  her,and  there 
was  the  pain  of  a  great  sacrifice  in  the 
words  she  murmured  to  herself,  "An' 
de  heart  o'  de  li'l  lam'  done  an'  clean 
gone  fum  we  all."  Then  there  was 
silence  for  a  time  while  the  old  fingers 
busied  themselves  in  arranging  the 
young  mistress'  hair,  and  caressing 
the  very  folds  of  her  dress  into  the 
most  graceful  shape,  as  one  might 
arrange  the  drapery  of  his  idol.  When 
Aunt  Lylie  spoke  it  was  of  the  memo 
ries  that  had  started  up  in  her  mind: 
"You  mind  me  o'  de  time  when  yo' 
muddertole  meOle  Marster,  dat's  her 
pa,  you  know,  done  an' give' is  promus 
she  kin  marry  Mars  George,  an'  I  was 
gwine  to  go  wid  'er.  I's  so  glad  den 
I  fa'rly  shouted.  Dis  is  diffunt,  fur  I 
can't  go  wid  you  no  great  while-" 
Then  after  another  pause,  "You  mus' 


Wise  Counsel  from  a  Good  Source.  65 

jes  go  and  tell  Mars  George  all  about 
it.  He  wants  you  to  trus'  him,  den  he 
trus'  you.  But  dat  'bout  Mars  Ken- 
yon  am'  got  no  fam'ly  to  brag  on 
ain't  gvvine  be  no  gret  sight  o'  he'p, 
an'  I  wouldn'  tell  'im  dat,  fur  'e's  got 
a  tech  o'  dat  'isse'f.  I  allus  was 
a-thinkin'  we  de  ve'y  cream  o'  crea 
tion.  Onc't  when  one  o'  dem  Lucas 
wenches  told  me  our  people  wa'nt 
much  nohow  but  dey  folks  was  de 
ve'y  top  o'  de  pot,  I  tole  'er  I  spec'  so, 
fur  we  allus  skum  off  de  top  and  flung 
it  away." 

More  was  said  than  it  belongs  to 
this  story  to  rehearse,  and  then  they 
parted,  Dora  to  do  as  her  counselor 
had  suggested,  and  Aunt  Lylie  to  do 
the  fullest  that  was  in  her  to  secure 
the  happiness  of  her  "chile." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  PEEP   AT   MISERY. 

"Mister,  mister,  please  come  home 
with  me.  I'm  feared  the  old  man'll 
kill  mother.  He's  crazy  drunk  and  as 
mad  as  a  tiger." 

This  was  blurted  out  by  a  shabby 
urchin  who  came  out  on  the  street  from 
a  miserable  tenement  row.  He  was 
bare-headed,  bare-footed,  and  the  rest 
not  much  above  that  level.  He  was 
breathless  with  excitement  and  fear. 
He  burst  into  the  street  leading1  to  the 
depot  just  as  Lawrance  Kenyon  was 
passing"  on  his  way  to  look  after  some 
freight  for  the  firm.  The  aspect  and 
earnestness  of  the  boy  left  no  room  for 
questioning  or  hesitation.  There  was 
no  policeman  in  sight,  so  he  followed 
the  boy  in  all  haste.  As  they  drew 
near  to  a  tumble-down  shanty,  screams 
and  pleadings  lent  speed  to  Lawrance, 
and  passing  his  guide  he  entered  the 


66 


A  Peep  at  Misery.  67 

door,  and  there  a  scene  met  his  gaze 
that  stirred  all  the  deep  indignation  of 
his  soul.  A  man  half-crazed  by  drink 
was  dragging  a  pale,  feeble  woman  by 
her  hair.  He  had  snatched  her  from 
the  sick-bed,  and  was  dragging  her, 
with  brutal  cursing,  toward  the  door, 
in  spite  of  her  piteous  pleading. 

"Stop,  you  scoundrel!"  was  the  greet 
ing  with  which  Lawrance  confronted 
him,  at  the  same  time  laying  no  gentle 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  Dropping  the 
woman,  who  fell  to  the  floor  with  a 
groan,  the  brute  turned  furiously  on 
Lawrance  with  an  oath.  One  blow 
from  Lawrance's  fist  sent  him  sprawl 
ing  on  the  floor.  Turning  his  atten 
tion  to  the  woman,  Lawrance  found 
she  had  fainted.  Taking  her  tenderly 
from  the  floor  he  laid  her  on  the  bed 
and  gave  his  attention  to  her  restora 
tion.  This  was  soon  accomplished, 
and  he  saw  before  him  the  wreck  of 
what  was  evidently  once  a  beautiful 
woman,  now  wasted  by  disease  and 
pinched  with  want  and  suffering. 
When  she  was  able  to  speak,  her 
first  words  were  a  plea  for  her  hus- 


68          In  White  and  Black. 

band.  Concern  for  him  for  the  time 
obscured  her  gratitude  and  she  stam 
mered:  "Please  do  —  not  hurt  —  my 
poor  —  husband.  He  is  not  himself — 
now.  He  was  —  a  good  husband  — 
once.  Drink  has  —  brought  all  —  this 
onus.  Do  not  —  have  him  —  arrested, 
please.  It  will  kill  me  if  you  —  do.  I 
shall — soon  be  dead  —  and  out  of  my 
sufferings.  But  then  —  my  boy — O 
my  —  boy!  What  will  —  become  —  of 
him?" 

The  boy  had  crept  into  the  room  in 
time  to  hear  this  last,  perhaps  ventur 
ing  to  do  so  because  his  father  had  in 
the  meantime  slunk  out.  He  had 
stolen  up  to  the  bedside,  and  when  the 
eyes  of  the  mother  fell  on  him,  the 
question  of  his  helpless,  hopeless  future 
took  possession  of  her  thoughts.  She 
ended  the  words  quoted  with  violent 
sobbing  and  a  fit  of  coughing  that  told 
all  too  plainly  the  disease  of  which  she 
was  dying.  The  boy  put  his  arms  about 
her  neck  and  buried  his  head  in  the 
pillow,  crying  piteously.  All  the  pent- 
up  fear  and  sense  of  wrong  and  dread 
of  being  left  without  his  mother,  the 


A  Peep  at  Misery.  69 

only  real  friend  he  had  ever  known, 
found  vent  in  the  sobs  that  shook  his 
tiny  frame.  All  the  terrible  pathos  of 
the  situation  dawned  on  Lawrance  as 
he  gazed  on  those  two.  He  saw  deeper 
into  human  misery  in  one  minute  than 
he  had  ever  seen  before.  The  scene 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  with  a  sim 
ple  promise  to  send  help,  he  went  out. 
As  he  passed  out,  he  saw  the  husband 
stagger  into  a  low  doggery  not  far 
away.  His  indignation  was  too  great 
to  consider  what  he  ought  to  do,  and 
he  did  not  consider,  but  this  is  what 
he  did:  He  walked  straight  to  the 
door  of  the  saloon,  entered,  laid  a  hand 
on  each  shoulder  of  the  wretch,  look 
ing  him  straight  in  the  face,  shook  him 
to  make  sure  of  his  attention,  and  said 
through  his  clenched  teeth:  "Do  you 
ever  enter  that  door  again,  or  speak 
one  word  to  that  woman  who  calls  you 
husband,  and  I  will  break  every  bone 
in  your  infamous  body,  you  rascal!  I 
shall  keep  watch,  and  do  you  keep 
clear  of  those  premises,  do  you  hear?" 
The  fellow  stammered  assent,  and 
Lawrance  turned  and  left  after  notic- 


70  In  White  and  Black. 

ing  two  or  three  rough  specimens  of 
humanity  in  the  saloon,  who  eyed  him 
with  astonishment. 

He  lost  no  time  in  sending"  some  re 
freshments  and  reporting  the  case  to 
the  board  of  public  charities. 

This  was  the  opening  of  a  new  chap 
ter  in  his  experience.  He  had  seen,  as 
through  a  window  opened  on  another 
world,  the  world  of  vice  and  suffering. 
He  had  got  one  glimpse  of  the  havoc 
of  everything  sacred  made  by  the  drink 
habit.  Manhood  dehumanized,  wo 
manhood  trampled  upon,  childhood 
crushed,  home  despoiled,  want  un 
satisfied,  sickness  untended,  hearts 
broken. 

He  had  scarcely  seen  the  face  of  the 
lad,  but  the  sound  of  his  sobbing  was 
in  his  ears  all  through  the  day,  and 
the  pale,  sad  face  of  the  mother  was 
almost  constantly  before  his  eyes.  We 
may  not  further  follow  the  history  of 
these  unfortunates  now,  only  to  say 
the  mother  soon  died  and  the  boy  was 
lost  in  the  crowd,  for  he  was  "only 
a  boy." 

It  is  so  easy  to  lose  sight  of  a  boy. 


A  Peep  at  Misery.  77 

All  the  world  will  sometimes  do  that 
till  the  boy  comes  out  of  his  obscurity 
a  criminal,  and  then  he  exacts  his  pen 
alty  for  having-  been  lost  sight  of  so 
long".  It  proves,  then,  to  have  been  a 
costly  oversight.  Had  the  charitable 
been  called  upon,  they  would  have 
done  almost  anything  in  reason  for  the 
waif,  but  they  were  too  busy  with  their 
own  affairs  to  seek  for  a  lost  boy.  In 
the  great  Judgment  the  eye  will  rest 
under  as  strong  condemnation  as  the 
hand,  for  the  eye  refuses  to  see  as 
much  as  the  hand  refuses  to  help.  It 
is  not  only  the  priest  and  the  Levite 
who  pass  by  that  are  culpable,  but  that 
multitude  who  go  another  way  to 
avoid  the  sight  of  suffering.  "If  I  had 
only  known"  is  a  threadbare  plea  in 
abatement  of  guilt  when  the  onus  of 
the  guilt  is  that  we  do  not  know.  The 
pitying  eye  is  as  gracious  as  the  com 
passionate  hand.  "He  looked  with 
compassion"  was  said  of  One  who  saw 
with  a  vision  undimmed  by  selfish 
scheming  and  undazzled  by  present- 
day  glory. 
The  miserable  husband  and  father, 


74          In  While  and  Black. 

ity  of  his  winning-  Dora,  if  he  could 
discover  his  rival  he  would  see  what 
might  be  done  to  crush  him.  To  this 
he  would  bend  all  his  resources,  and 
the  thought  of  it  gave  him  more  than 
half  the  pleasure  that  complete  success 
would  have  done.  To  such  natures  as 
his,  crushing1  a  rival  is  as  sweet  as  win 
ning  a  treasure.  In  making"  this  dis 
covery  no  time  must  be  lost.  But  he 
was  uncertain  how  to  begin.  With 
these  thoughts  running1  through  his 
brain  and  driving  out  all  others,  as  it 
drew  towards  noon  he  left  his  office 
and  went  out,  he  scarcely  knew  why 
nor  where.  He  crossed  the  Clear 
Creek  bridge  and  was  in  the  country. 
The  smell  of  grape-blossoms  was  in 
the  air,  and  the  merry  sounds  of 
spring"  were  everywhere.  To  him 
there  was  little  charm  in  nature  at 
any  time;  less  now,  for  his  thoughts 
were  on  other  thing's.  Finding-  no 
pleasure  in  these  scenes  he  turned  back 
and  stood  leaning  on  the  railing-  of  the 
bridge,  looking  down  into  the  stream, 
every  stone  and  ripple  of  which  held  a 
memory  for  him. 


Ben  Falls  Into  a  7^rap.          75 

Just  then  Ben  drove  his  team  down 
into  the  creek  to  water  them,  as  was  his 
custom  before  giving  them  their  noon 
day  oats.  He  entered  the  stream  be 
low  the  bridge,  and  stopped  in  a  few 
feet  of  Roswell,  whom  he  had  failed 
to  observe.  The  thirsty  horses  plunged 
their  noses  in  the  cooling  water,  and 
Ben  watched  them  drink  with  an  en 
joyment  almost  as  great  as  their  own, 
all  the  while  whistling  a  merry  tune 
and  drumming  on  the  body  of  the  dray 
with  his  heels.  Something  more  like  a 
smile  than  anything  his  face  had  worn 
since  morning  played  around  Ros- 
well's  lips  as  he  looked  at  Ben. 

"Hello,  Ben,"  was  the  first  cheerful 
intimation  of  his  presence. 

"I'clar to  gracious,  youmos'  tek  my 
bref  away  you  skeer  me  so,"  and  Ben's 
eyes  began  to  shrink  to  their  natural 
size,  while  his  white  teeth  punctuated 
a  liberal  smile. 

"That's  a  fine  team  you  are  driving." 

"Yes,  sir,  dey  sho'  is  er  fine  team. 
You  des  orter  see  um  pull,  do.  Hit 
mek  yo'  har  stan'  on  en',  lak  you  dun 
seed  a  gos.'  When  I  say  de  wu'd 


7 6          In  IVhite  and  Black. 

sumpin  got  to  brek,  or  dey  gwine  away 
fum  dar." 

"Do  you  believe  in  ghosts,  Ben?" 

"Now  den,"  said  Ben,  shaking  his 
head  slowly,  "you  ax  me  pow'ful  hard 
un.  I  ain't  nuver  seed  none,  but  ain't 
'sputin'  dem  whut  is  seed  um.  Now 
dar's  Tom  Lucas  say  he  dun  an'  seed 
his  mudder  walk  roun'  'is  bed  three 
times  one  night  des  as  plain  as  you 
sees  yo'  han'  fo'  yo'  face  an'  dat  after 
she  been  dead  mo'n  a  whole  year." 

"I  suspect  Tom  had  been  drinking 
too  much;  that  sometimes  makes  peo 
ple  see  things,  I  am  told.  If  I  were  in 
your  place  I  would  tell  Liddie  about 
his  seeing  ghosts.  Do  you  think  she 
would  like  to  have  the  ghost  of  her 
mother-in-law  walking  about  the 
house?" 

Here  Ben's  smile  broke  into  a  laugh, 
and  between  the  ripples  of  good  humor 
he  exclaimed,  "Now,  Mars  Roswell, 
whut  you  gwine  say  nex'?" 

"Only  that  I  think  Liddie  is  a  sensi 
ble  girl  and  will  not  take  up  with  that 
good-for-nothing  fellow,  if  you  set  up 
to  her  in  good  earnest." 


Ben  Falls  Into  a  Trap.         77 

Another  laugh,  still  heartier  than 
before,  and,  "Dis  nigger  sho'gwine  do 
whut  'e  kin.  But  how  cum  you  'spicion 
bout  me  and  Liddie?" 

Roswell  saw  the  time  had  come  for 
the  main  attack.  He  had  skillfully 
touched  all  the  chords  but  one,  and  he 
reserved  that.  After  a  brief  pause  he 
said,  "By  the  way,  Ben,  some  lucky 
man  has  been  courting  your  young 
mistress,  I  suspect.  Do  you  know 
who  he  is?" 

"What  mek  you  'spec'  dat?" 

"Well,  I  think  it  likely  that  such  a 
young  lady  as  she  is  would  have  suit 
ors,  she  is  so  attractive,  and  then  I 
heard  a  rumor  to  that  effect." 

"You  spoke  de  Lawd's  truf,  when 
you  sed  dat,  fur  Miss  Dodie  suttinly 
is  a  mos'  'stonishin'  pusson.  She  dat 
gay  an'  happy  an'  jes  lak  a  streak 
o'  sunshine  wherebber  she  goes;  den 
agin  she  jes  as  calculations  as  Ole 
Marster  hisself,  an'  as  independent 
as  a  woodchopper.  Mammie  say  she 
jes  as  much  lak  'er  mudder  whut's 
dead  as  one  pea's  lak  anudder." 

Roswell  saw  he  had  touched  off  a 


7<?          In  White  and  Black. 

vein  of  talk  that  was  inexhaustible, 
and  he  broke  in  with  the  question  on 
which  he  still  had  no  light:  "Do  you 
happen  to  know  who's  courting  her, 
1  Ben?" 

"Well,  you  see,  you  can't  mos'  allus 
tell  'bout  sich  at  dat.  I  can't  'zacly 
say.  Whut  mek  you  ax  me  dat?" 

All  this  time  Ben  was  in  a  pitiable 
state  of  perplexity.  He  remembered 
his  promise  to  his  mother,  yet  he  could 
not  see  what  harm  he  could  do  by  tell 
ing  this  man  a  simple  thing  like  that- 
Then  he  had  conceived  a  liking  for 
this  man,  whom  he  had  always  dis 
liked  heartily  before,  perhaps  because 
his  Mammie  had  disliked  him. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular,"said  Ros- 
well  in  his  easiest  way,  replying  to 
Ben's  last  question,  "only  I  was  curi 
ous  to  know,  but  if  it's  a  secret  you 
needn't  mind."  Here  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  silver  dollar  and  threw  it 
in  the  bottom  of  the  dray  saying, 
"You've  done  me  some  good  turns, 
take  that  and  buy  something  for  Lid- 
die."  Then  he  made  a  move  as  if  he 
would  turn  away. 


Ben  Falls  Into  a  Trap.         79 

Ben's  barriers  gave  way  and  he  said, 
"Mars  Roswell,  I  kin  tell  you  all  I 
knows,  an'  dat  ain't  a  gret  sight.  Las' 
night  at  de  party,  Mars  Lawrance 
whut  keeps  de  books  at  de  sto,'  you 
know  he  was  at  de  party,  he  was  talkin 
pow'ful  sof  to  'er  under  de  big  beech — 
you  know  de  big  beech  by  de  front 
po'ch? — an'  she  pear  to  take  it  mighty 
well.  All  I  hear  'er  say  was  he  mus' 
wait  fur  'is  answer  till  to-morrow  night 
— dat's  to-night,  you  know." 

When  Roswell  turned  away,  Ben 
felt  uncomfortable.  Turning  his 
horses'  heads  towards  home,  he  drove 
up  the  hill,  not  whistling  as  merrily  as 
when  he  came.  Could  he  have  uttered 
his  thoughts  this  is  about  what  we 
should  have  heard:  "Wonder  ef  he's 
gone  an'  got  'ligion.  Dat  do  mek 
folks  pow'ful  friendly,  dey  say.  'Spec' 
he  gwine  run  fur  office.  I  'members 
when  Mars  Rubin  run  fur  de  repesent, 
he  cum  bowin'  an'  scrapin'  an'  axin 
de  niggers  how's  dey  craps.  He  ain't 
nuvver  done  it  sence;  least  I  ain't  seed 
'im  do  it." 

He  was  awakened  from  his  musings 


8o          In  IVhite  and  Black. 

by  the  voice  of  Aunt  Lylie  exclaim 
ing-,  "What  you  dreamin'  'bout?" 
The  horses  had  passed  through  the 
open  gate  into  the  lot.  When  he  had 
unharnessed  and  entered  the  kitchen 
he  threw  the  dollar  that  had  helped 
ensnare  him  on  the  table,  saying;. 
"Bar's  a  present  I  brung  you." 

"Whar  you  git  dat  ?"  she  exclaimed, 
"yo'  wages  dun  an'  put  away  in  dat 
trunk  an'  you  ain't  gwine  git  it  out  tell 
you  need  it,  nudder." 

Without  hesitation,  Ben  answered, 
"Mars  Roswell  gin  it  to  me." 

"What  de  name  o'  goodness  he  gib- 
bin  you  money  fur  ?  Dat's  a  new 
wrinkle  on  my  hawn,  sho'." 

Ben  got  badly  choked  at  this  point, 
and  the  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  his  coughing,  perhaps  fortunately 
for  him.  Guilt  is  a  bad  sauce,  and  a 
wrong  is  not  easy  to  swallow. 

After  a  brief  silence,  Ben  asked, 
"Mammie,  don't  nobody  git  'ligion 
'cep'  at  meetin'  ?" 

His  spiritual  condition  was  a  source 
of  perpetual  concern  to  his  Mammie. 
Many  were  the  times,  when  he  was 


Ben  Falls  Into  a  Traf.         81 

asleep,  she  had,  to  use  her  own  phrase 
ology,  "rastled"  in  prayer  for  him  far 
into  the  night.  It  therefore  gave  her 
great  satisfaction  to  hear  him  speak 
of  the  matter  of  his  own  accord.  Her 
answer  was  prompt :  "Cou'se  dey  kin, 
honey.  Some  o'  dese  niggers  think 
hit  takes  a  heap  o'  noise  to  'tract  de 
Lawd's  attention.  But  I  'lows  he  kin 
hear  a  whisper  same  as  a  shout.  Dar 
was  Ole  Mistis,  she  was  pow'ful  quiet 
lak,  but  she  had  de  witness  all  de  time. 
An'  one  day  Mars  George  an'  Ole 
Mistis  was  readin'  de  Bible,  it  was 
Sunday  ebenin',  an'  when  I  was 
passing  de  do'  I  seed  um  kneelin' 
down  wid  'er  arm  'roun'  'is  neck;  an' 
I  knows  dis,  'e  ain't  nuvver  been  de 
same  no  mo'.  In  dat  room  he  dun  an' 
hear  de  wud  an'  got  de  sperunce  o' 
grace."  Here  the  religious  discussion 
ended,  and  it  would  not  have  given 
Aunt  Lylie  as  much  comfort  as  it  did 
had  she  known  the  ground  of  Ben's 
question.  Nevertheless,  she  had  seized 
her  opportunity,  and  was  wise  enough 
to  sow  the  seed  and  wait.  For  sage 
and  servant  the  heart  hath  the  same 


82          In  White  and  Black. 

need  the  world  over.  War  of  creed 
and  clamor  of  doubt  can  not  hush  its 
cry  nor  make  it  deaf  to  the  answering 
message  of  love.  That  one  message 
breaks  itself  up  into  the  forms  of  hu 
man  speech  as  the  firmament  of  wa 
ters  breaks  into  rivers,  that  it  may  flow 
in  soothing  and  healing  benediction 
through  all  the  forms  of  human  inter 
course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GRANTLEY  SHOWS  HIS  HAND. 

Roswell  Grantley  found  himself, 
when  seated  in  his  room  after  dinner, 
in  a  rather  uncomfortable  frame  of 
mind.  His  imperious  will,  not  accus 
tomed  to  be  balked,  had  met  an  ob 
stacle  that  did  not  seem  likely  to  give 
way  easily.  Moreover,  he  had  received 
a  wound  in  the  most  vulnerable  part 
of  his  being,  namely,  his  pride,  that 
tyrannical  master  that  had  ruled  him 
from  his  youth.  That  wound  rankled 
still  more  when  he  discovered  the,  to 
him,  despicable  rival  who  dared  dis 
pute  his  right  to  the  hand  of  Dora 
Melton.  He  was  not  a  man  to  hesi 
tate,  least  of  all,  under  these  condi 
tions.  It  was  evident  that  there  was 
no  time  to  lose.  The  wooing  had  not 
gone  very  far  between  Dora  and  Ken- 
yon,  that  was  plain.  Mr.  Melton  knew 
nothing  of  it.  Roswell  had  spoken  to 


83 


82          In  White  and  Black. 

need  the  world  over.  War  of  creed 
and  clamor  of  doubt  can  not  hush  its 
cry  nor  make  it  deaf  to  the  answering 
message  of  love.  That  one  message 
breaks  itself  up  into  the  forms  of  hu 
man  speech  as  the  firmament  of  wa 
ters  breaks  into  rivers,  that  it  may  flow 
in  soothing  and  healing  benediction 
through  all  the  forms  of  human  inter 
course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GRANTLEY  SHOWS  HIS  HAND. 

Roswell  Grantley  found  himself, 
when  seated  in  his  room  after  dinner, 
in  a  rather  uncomfortable  frame  of 
mind.  His  imperious  will,  not  accus 
tomed  to  be  balked,  had  met  an  ob 
stacle  that  did  not  seem  likely  to  give 
way  easily.  Moreover,  he  had  received 
a  wound  in  the  most  vulnerable  part 
of  his  being,  namely,  his  pride,  that 
tyrannical  master  that  had  ruled  him 
from  his  youth.  That  wound  rankled 
still  more  when  he  discovered  the,  to 
him,  despicable  rival  who  dared  dis 
pute  his  right  to  the  hand  of  Dora 
Melton.  He  was  not  a  man  to  hesi 
tate,  least  of  all,  under  these  condi 
tions.  It  was  evident  that  there  was 
no  time  to  lose.  The  wooing  had  not 
gone  very  far  between  Dora  and  Ken- 
yon,  that  was  plain.  Mr.  Melton  knew 
nothing  of  it.  Roswell  had  spoken  to 


83 


84          In  White  and  Black. 

him  only  that  morning-.  He  had 
counted  on  sympathy  in  that  direction. 
He  had  gone  to  Mr.  Melton  on  the 
plea  of  asking1  permission  to  sue  for 
Dora's  affections,  but  really  to  secure 
his  co-operation.  He  had  shrewdly 
pleaded  family  relations,  worldly  ad 
vantages,  had  warned  against  a  possi 
ble  misalliance  for  Dora,  and  had  even 
hinted  as  far  as  he  dared  that  the  firm 
of  Melton  and  Ford  could  have  un 
limited  indulgence  (which  he  too  well 
knew  they  needed)  if  his  suit  were  suc 
cessful.  He  had  gone  away  from  this 
interview  with  the  very  exasperating 
impression  that  he  had  made  no  head 
way,  and  that  Mr.  Melton  was  not  the 
sensible  business  man  he  had  always 
thought  him.  He  had  left  that  noble 
old  man  reflecting  on  his  own  courtship 
and  his  beautiful  wedded  years,  and 
on  the  infamy  of  shrewd  men  of  the 
world  planning  to  make  the  happiness 
of  an  innocent  girl  a  matter  of  cold 
business  and  colder  social  advantages 
and  repeating  to  himself  these  lines 
from  "Locksley  Hall,"  as  he  sat  drum 
ming  on  the  desk  with  his  fingers: 


Grantley  Shows  His  Hand.        85 

"Cursed    be   the    social    wants    that    sin    against    the 

strength  of  youth, 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies   that  warp  us   from   the    living 

truth. 
Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  nature's  honest 

rule, 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straightened  forehead 

of  the  fool." 

Roswell  thought  over  these  events 
of  the  day  as  he  puffed  his  after-dinner 
cigar.  When  the  cigar  was  half  fin 
ished,  he  threw  it  away,  and  turning 
to  his  table,  wrote  a  note  to  Dora,  and 
calling  a  servant  instructed  him  to 
bring  the  answer  to  his  office. 

What  we  see  is  only  half,  and  the 
lesser  half,  of  the  tragedy  of  life.  The 
real  battles  are  fought  beyond  the 
gaze  of  men.  The  mysterious  alchemy 
of  thought  and  feeling  is  the  real 
heart  of  earth's  histories.  That  which 
comes  to  pass  on  the  visible  stage,  the 
coarse  and  clumsy  movements  of  the 
flesh,  is  hardly  more  than  the  shadow 
cast  by  the  soul  as  it  passes  whither  it 
is  bent.  The  soul  of  Roswell  Grant- 
ley  has  taken  its  course;  we  shall  see 
what  shadows  it  casts. 

Reaching  his  office,  he  found  Mr. 
Ford,  of  the  firm  of  Melton  and  Ford, 


86          In  White  and  Black. 

awaiting-  him.  Nothing1  could  have 
suited  him  better.  It  was  further  fa 
vorable  to  his  plans  that  Mr.  Ford, 
who  was  now  the  active  member  of 
the  firm,  had  called  to  see  him  in 
reference  to  the  extension  of  notes  of 
the  firm  that  were  already  past  due  to 
Grantley  and  Son,  bankers. 

Roswell  is  seated.  Mr.  Ford  has 
arisen  and  is  restlessly  pacing  the  floor. 
It  is  evident  that  the  latter  is  the  more 
excited  and  undecided,  while  the 
former  has  the  more  nerve  and  has 
the  advantage. 

"I  tell  you,  the  thing  must  be  done, 
Ford,  and  done  at  once.  It  is  to  your 
interest  to  be  rid  of  him  at  once;  and, 
moreover,  it  is  to  my  interest." 

"The  deuce,  you  say.  What  does 
this  mean?  Can't  you  explain?  He 
is  the  best  man  we  have  ever  had,  and 
I  do  not  know  the  shadow  of  a  reason 
for  the  course  you  suggest." 

"Yes,  you  have  one  good  reason.  I 
have  told  you  it  was  to  your  interest 
and  mine,  and  I  am  not  accustomed 
to  speak  without  meaning",  as  you  have 
reason  to  know.  Suppose  I  have  good 


Grantley  Shows  His  Hand.     8*j 

reasons  for  withholding1,  even  from 
you,  the  grounds  of  my  demand  for 
the  present.  Can't  you  trust  me?  Is 
it  likely  that  I  should  wish  other  than 
the  fullest  success  to  you  at  this  time?" 

"But,  Grantley,  this  is  so  sudden, 
and  seems  so  confounded  unreason 
able.  Besides,  the  thing  is  not  so  easy. 
What  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Melton 
will  say  to  it?  He  has  taken  a  decided 
fancy  to  the  fellow.  Then  there  is  the 
question  of  a  successor.  What  are  we 
to  do?" 

"What  must  be  done,  can  be,  and  I 
tell  you  this  must  be.  You  are  not  so 
in  the  habit  of  yielding  to  Mr.  Melton. 
You  know  how  to  manage  that.  As  to 
the  successor,  I  was  coming  to  that. 
There  is  George  Winston,  whom  I 
can  spare  and  who  can  be  had  for 
much  less  money,  and  he  is  thoroughly 
capable." 

"But  why  such  haste?  Can't  we 
wait  a  month  and  give  the  fellow  time 
to  think?" 

"I  tell  you  once  more  and  for  the 
last  time  that  it  must  be  done  at  once. 
There  is  no  use  to  mince  words.  Will 


88  In  White  and  Black. 

you  do  it  and  keep  my  confidence,  or 
refuse  and — take  the  consequences?" 

This  last  was  spoken  calmly,  but  in 
tones  that  left  no  mistake  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  speaker. 

Mr.  Ford  hesitated,  took  a  turn 
across  the  room,  then  said,  "Well,  if 
I  must,  I  must,  but  it's  a  thing- 1  don't 
like  to  do.  And  see  here,  Roswell, 
you  must  not  carry  this  thing  of  mak 
ing  demands  too  far."  The  last  re 
mark,  a  kind  of  parting  shot,  a  sort  of 
salve  to  wounded  independence.  It 
was  a  mock  defiance,  a  tribute  of  a 
weak  nature  to  a  stronger  one,  that 
always  comes  in  late  in  the  struggle — 
as  if  the  thing  had  not  been  carried 
too  far  already. 

At  this  stage  a  note  was  handed  to 
Roswell.  He  opened  and  read  it. 
The  expression  of  his  face  scarcely 
changed;  there  was  only  a  slightly 
perceptible  tightening  of  the  muscles, 
as  of  one  making  ready  to  meet  an  an 
tagonist.  He  lingered  over  the  con 
tents  a  moment,  then  suddenly  asked, 
"What  hour  do  you  get  your  mail?" 


Grantley  Shows  His  Hand.      89 

"At  four  o'clock  we  send  for  it,"  said 
Mr.  Ford. 

"Will  you  make  sure  that  Kenyo'n 
gets  a  letter  at  that  time?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  will  you  have  attended  to  the 
other  before  that  time?" 

"Well,  yes,  if  you  must  have  it  so. 
Is  that  all?"  in  a  tone  of  exaspera 
tion. 

"Only  this.  Do  not  forget,  and  re 
member  that  Roswell  Grantley  never 
forgets.  I  shall  depend  on  you." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  WAITING   THAT  WAS   LONG. 

Before  receiving  Rosvvell's  note, 
spoken  of  in  the  last  chapter,  Dora 
had  followed  Aunt  Lylie's  counsel 
and  told  her  father  the  whole  story. 
He  was  not  a  little  startled  by  it,  but 
being"  a  man  of  strong"  common  sense 
and  a  generous  nature,  he  listened 
with  intelligent  sympathy.  She  made 
it  plain  to  him  that  her  heart  was  com 
mitted  beyond  recall  to  Lawrance 
Kenyon.  He  withheld  the  cautions 
and  protests  natural  to  a  fond  father, 
for  he  saw  that  this  child  of  yesterday 
was  a  woman  to-day,  and  that  her  rich 
nature  had  felt  in  its  depths  the  sway 
of  a  new  power,  for  it  was  clear  her 
heart  had  opened  itself  to  love  as  a 
flower  to  sunshine.  Moreover,  he 
liked  Kenyon,  and  was  too  sensible 
to  despise  a  man  for  his  poverty  or 
his  pedigree.  He  could  do  no  other- 

90 


A  Wailing  That  Was  Long.    91 

wise  than  yield  to  the  tide  that  was 
setting-  seaward.  He  tenderly  gave 
Dora  his  blessing. 

The  rest  seemed  to  Dora  easy.  She 
was  dreaming  her  dreams  for  the 
future,  when  she  received  the  note 
from  Roswell,  and  she  answered  it  as 
follows: 

DEAR  SIR:  What  passed  between 
us  last  night  must  be  the  end  of  an 
affair  of  which  nothing  can  come.  I 
h,ave  talked  with  my  father,  as  you 
might  have  expected  me  to  do,  and 
we  are  agreed.  This  note  must  posi 
tively  end  all  communications  on  the 
subject.  With  a  full  sense  of  the 
honor  you  intended  to  do  me, 
I  am,  sir, 

DORA  MELTON. 

She  took  a  grim  pleasure  in  the 
cool  tone  of  this  note.  There  are  not 
many  forms  of  revenge  permissible 
to  a  woman,  but  those  in  her  reach 
are  sometimes  used  with  effect.  She 
wished  Roswell  to  understand  that 
she  took  leave  of  him  without  the 
slightest  hesitation,  and  that  there  was 
no  ground  for  hope  that  she  would 
relent. 


$2          In  White  and  Black. 

This  finished,  she  went  to  Aunt 
Lylie  in  a  glow  of  excitement,  and 
told  the  result  of  the  talk  with  her 
father. 

"I  done  tole  you  you  mus'n't  be 
oneasy.  I  knowed  hit  wus  gwineter 
be  all  right  wid  'im.  You  min'  me  o' 
de  time  whut  I  tole  you  'bout  when 
Young  Mistis  come  to  de  qua'ters  (she 
wus  Young  Mistis  den)  arter  Ole 
Marster  tole  'er  she  kin  marry  Mars 
George.  I  'clar  you  mos'  mek  me 
furgit  she  ain'  right  here  befo'  me." 

Things  were  moving  beautifully. 
Dora  had  her  father's  approval,  and 
she  had  finally  disposed  of  Roswell. 
Her  ship  had  crossed  the  bar,  and  it 
was  only  left  to  sail  bravely  on. 

Lawrance  would  call  on  her  that 
evening.  She  had  no  idea  it  was  nec 
essary  to  keep  him  in  suspense,  after 
the  conventional  fashion.  She  meant 
to  obey  the  impulse  of  her  heart  and 
tell  him  all  frankly.  She  would  have 
counted  it  false  as  well  as  foolish  to 
withhold  her  secret.  She  felt  how 
happy  both  would  be  with  a  complete 
understanding.  What  would  have 


A  Wailing  That  Was  Long.    QJ 

seemed  to  the  conventional  woman 
propriety  presented  itself  to  her  mind 
as  false  and  cruel.  She  was  too  noble 
to  play  the  cat-and-mouse  game  and 
too  guileless  to  pay  tribute  to  caution. 

She  gave  minute  directions  for  the 
arrangement  of  everything-  about  the 
parlor.  She  told  Aunt  Lylie  she  was 
going1  to  have  company  in  the  even 
ing. 

"Who's  a-comin?" 

"Why,  Lawrance  Kenyon,  of 
course." 

"Well,  I  'clar  to  gracious,  ef  you 
don't  beat  all!"  Then  looking  at  the 
pretty  face  a  moment,  "But  I  spec' 
you's  right.  Ef  Fs  in  'is  place,  I'd 
pull  dat  do'  bell  sartin  an'  sho.  But 
you  mus'  'member  dat  men's  mighty 
oncertain  critters.  Dey  may,  an'  den 
agin  dey  mayn't.  You  can't  mos' 
allus  count  on  'em.  Women  don't 
hafter  do  nothin'  'tall  but  jes  wait  an' 
see  what  dey  gwine  come  ter,  an' 
sometimes  dey  gits  mighty  tired 
waitin'.  Hit  pears  ter  me  lak  de  biz- 
ness  sorter  one-sided,  anyhow.  Ef  a 
man  want  you  fer  a  wife,  all  'e  got 


94  In  White  and  Black. 

ter  do's  jes  march  up  an'  ax  you;  but 
ef  you  dyin'  fer  a  sight  o'  one  o'  dem 
lawds  o'  creation,  you  dasn't  eber  look 
in  dat  direction,  but  you  mus'  jes  shet 
yo'  eyes  an'  ten1  lak  you  spise  de  ve'y . 
sight  of  'im. 

"Now,  dar's  Rastus,  dat's  Ben's 
daddy,  you  know.  He  fus  'long-  ter 
de  Lucases.  De  fus  time  I  eber  seed 
'im  I  got  mighty  sot  on  'im.  Hit  wus 
at  de  chu'ch.  Mars  George  allus  tuk 
we  all  ter  chu'ch  dem  days  when  de 
suckit  rider  come  eb'ry  two  weeks. 
Us  black  folks  sot  up  in  de  gall'ry. 
Dem  days  niggahs  know  dey  place. 
Dey  wa'n't  none  o'  dese  high-falutin' 
notions  dat  dey  gwinter  be  sumpin' 
'sides  what  God  made  'em,  an'  dey 
proud  ter  see  dey  white  folks  settin' 
in  de  fine  seats  on  de  fust  flo'.  De 
only  trouble  dem  days  wus  we's  allus 
'sputin'  'bout  who's  got  de  bes'  white 
folks.  Our  niggahs  an'  de  Lucas 
niggahs  use  ter  'spute  'tween  um  right 
in  de  mids'  er  de  meetin'.  I  'member 
a  fight  'tween  our  Pomp  an'  Lige  Lu 
cas.  Hit  was  a  Sat'day  meetin'. 
Pomp  was  one  dese  loud-mouf  nig- 


A  Wailing  That  Was  Long.    95 

gahs,  what  got  more  noise  dan  dey 
got  brains,  but  he  sot  a  heap  o'  store 
by  Mars  George  an'  Mistiss.  He 
think  dey  de  onliest  people  in  de  Ian', 
an'  'e  can'  stan'  to  hear  nobody  say 
nothin  agin  um  Lige  wuz  de  same 
way  by  his  white  folks.  When  Miss 
Mary  Lucas  cum  in  de  chu'ch  wid  her 
mudder  same  as  a  queen,  we  all 
'bleege  ter  say  she  was  fine.  Lige 
rar'd  'is  head  up  an'  gin'  it  a  kin'  o' 
shake,  much  as  to  say,  'dem's  de  sort 
o'  people  whut  you  read  about,'  an' 
sorter  motion  to'ds  um  wid  'is  hand. 
Den  when  our  folks  cum  in  an*  walk 
up  de  chu'ch,  Pomp  he  make  a  sign 
to  Lige,  an'  sorter  open  'is  eyes  wide 
an'  blow  'is  bref  hard,  much  as  ter  say, 
'dem's  folks  what  is  folks.'  When  de 
chu'ch  was  out  dey  met  an'  gin  to 
splavicate.  Lige  say  Mars  Lucas  got 
mo'  money  an'  mo'  niggahs  dan  Mars 
George,  an'  in  dat  he  was  right;  but 
Pomp  'low'd  dat  one  o'  Mars  George's 
niggahs  wuth  two  o'  his'en,  and  as  fur 
money,  Mars  George  'ud  have  a  heap 
more'n  'e  got  ef  'e  starve  his  niggahs 
tell  dey  look  lack  a  ash-hopper.  LigC 


g6          In  White  and  Black. 

say  'e  better  be  keerful  how  'e  talk, 
kase  he  ain'  gwine  tek  it;  dat  Mars 
George  was  po'  white  trash  an*  his 
daddy  dun  tole  'im  de  Meltons  was 
common  blood.  Pomp  'low  dey 
mighty  povv'ful  oncommon  side  dem 
Lucases.  Lige  up  an'  'clar'  his  Mars- 
ter's  people  cum  'cross  de  sea  in  dat 
ship  what  dey  call  de  May  Fly.  Den 
Pomp  say  dat  all  dern  May  Fly  peo 
ple  common  as  mud  (do  he  doan' 
know  nuttin  'tall  'bout  it),  but  dat 
Mars  George's  was  here  'fore  de  ken- 
try  was  diskivered,  for  he  kin  to  de 
Poker  Hunters  of  ole  Viginny;  an'  de 
May  Fly  people  have  to  tek  off  dey 
hats  an'  ax  um  fo'  dey  can  Ian'  dey 
cyargo. 

"Frum  dat,  one  word  brung  on  'nur 
till  dey  clinched  fur  a  fight.  Hit  was 
at  de  back  o'  de  chu'ch  close  to  de 
grabeyard.  By  'n  by  Lige  cotch  his 
heel  on  one  dem  grabe-stones  an'  fell 
flat  crost  a  grabe  an'  Pomp  on  top  on 
'im.  When  Pomp  seed  whar  'e  wuz 
he  fotch  a  yell  an'  come  a-climin',  and 
Lige  nuvver  wait  to  git  up,  but  cum 


A  Waiting  Thai  Was  Long.    97 

blippity-blip  on  'is  all  fo's.    Hit  bruk 
up  de  fight." 

"Mammie,"  broke  in  Dora,  "I 
thought  you  were  going  to  tell  me 
about  Rastus,  and  here  you  have 
launched  into  a  regular  volume  of  his 
tory." 

"Sho'  nuff,  I  dun  clean  furgot! 
Well,  Rastus  cum  fum  Lusianny. 
Mars  Lucas  tuck  a  lot  o'  cotton  down 
to  New  Orleans,  an'  I  hearn  um  say 
when  he  cum  back  he  brung  a  mighty 
likely  buck  wid  'im.  I's  young  den. 
De  fus  time  I  went  to  chu'ch  I  seed 
Rastus.  I  was  singin'  when  he  cum 
in  an'  sot  down  close  to  me,  and  when 
I  seed  'im  I  didn't  sing  no  mo'.  He 
was  lookin'  straight  at  me  wid  a  sort 
o'  twinkle  in  'is  eye.  I  can*  tell  ef  it 
mean  mischief  or  dat  e's  jis  axin'  'is- 
self  who  I  is.  Arter  we  cum  home  I 
kep  thinkin'  'bout  dat  niggah  an'  de 
twinkle  in  'is  eye.  Pomp  keeps  on 
sayin'  'Lylie,  dat  new  niggah  got 
stuck  on  you.'  'G'long,'  says  I,  'what 
I  keer  fur  dat  chap?  'sides  how  you 
know?'  He  said  kase  'e  done  tole  'im, 
an'  'e  wan'  cum  ter  see  me.  I  'low'd 


98          In  White  and  Black. 

'e  better  go  whar  'e's  wanted;  den  I 
say  keerless  lack,  'When  'e  gwine  cum?' 
Pomp  say,  'Next  Sunday.'  De  ve'y 
nex'  day  Pomp  seed  'im  an'  tole  'im 
jes  what  I  said,  kase  'e  wan'  me  'isself, 
an'  'e  hopin'  Rastus  won't  come. 

"De  nex'  Sunday  arter  dinner  I  fix 
up  in  my  best  an'  waited  an'  waited. 
De  niggahs  keep  a  sayin,'  'Whut  you 
thinkin'  'bout  an'  why  you  so  spankin' 
fixed  up?'  But  Rastus  nuvver  cum. 

"Arter  dat  when  I  seed  'im  I  'ten 
lack  I  doan  wan'  look  at  'im.  One 
Sunday  our  folks  went  out  to  Mount 
Zion  chu'ch  an'  cyar  dey  dinner.  De 
Lucases  went  too.  Arter  dinner  I 
was  gwine  to  de  big  spring  down 
under  de  hill  fur  a  bucket  o'  water, 
when  Rastus  cum  up  side  o'  me  an' 
say  '  Lemme  cyar  yo'  bucket.'  'Co'use 
I  can't  'fuse,  an'  de  rocks  so  perlite  to 
offer  a  cheer,  we  jes  natu'lly  sot  down 
an'  gin  ter  talk.  De  poplar  blooms 
wus  drappin'  thoo  de  leaves,  de  bees  wus 
a-hummin'  'mongst  de  trees,  de  spring 
branch  wus  a-singin,'  an'  a  redbird 
come  an'  flipped  'is  wings  in  it.  All 
dis  time  Rastus  wus  busy  brekin'  a 


A  Waiting  That  Was  Long.    99 

stick  wid  his  fingers.  Toreckly  he  ax 
me  whut  mek  me  don'  wan'  'im  come 
ter  see  me.  'Who  tole  you  dat?'  says 
I.  'Pomp  tole  me,'  says  he.  I  tole 
'im  dat  niggah  wus  allus  puttin'  'is 
mouf  in  whar  'e  ain'  got  no  business. 
Den  'e  ax  me  kin  'e  come,  an'  I  tole 
'im  I  spec' so.  De  f us' thing  I  knowed, 
he  wus  axin'  me  ef  I  won'  tek  pity  on 
'im  an'  marry  'im,  an'  git  Mars  George 
ter  buy  him.  He  talked  so  sof  an' 
suadin'  dat  I  mos'  furgit  myse'f  an* 
le'm  squeeze  my  han'.  I  tole  'im  I  see 
about  it  an'  ax  Mistis.  All  de  time  I 
know  whut  I  gwinter  do.  When  we 
got  back  to  de  chu'ch  de  summon 
wus  done  an'  finished,  an'  I  wus  farly 
skeered.  Ole  Mistis  sho'ly  scole  me 
dat  time,  tell  I  splain  to  'er  'bout 
Rastus,  den  she  ain'  scole  me  no  mo,'." 
Dora  listened  with  intense  interest 
to  the  story  of  Aunt  Lylie's  courtship, 
which  was  so  true  to  nature,  and  whose 
romance  was  so  in  keeping  with  her 
own  state  of  mind.  Having  given  di 
rections  about  the  arrangement  of  the 
parlor,  a  thirst  for  open  air  drew  her 
out  among  the  trees,  where  she  seemed 


loo         In  White  and  Black. 

as  much  at  home  as  the  birds  and 
butterflies.  There  was  a  song  in  her 
heart,  it  was  the  song  of  hope,  and  it 
made  her  strong  and  glad. 

The  day  wore  away  at  last,  and  the 
night  came,  but  it  did  not  bring  Law- 
ranee  as  she  expected.  Her  father  re 
marked  at  the  supper-table  that  Mr. 
Kenyon  had  left  the  store  early,  corn- 
plaining  of  some  indisposition,  and 
this  she  accepted  as  explanation  of  his 
not  keeping  his  engagement  to  call. 
She  smothered  her  impatience  as  well 
as  she  might,  and  thought  on  the  happy 
hour  only  a  little  postponed.  She  re 
tired  that  night  all  a-flutter  with  the 
excitement  of  the  day.  Such  a  day 
had  not  been  in  her  life  before;  no 
more  would  such  a  day  be  for  her 
again. 

When  she  awoke  from  sleep,  it  was 
to  hear  the  clang  of  fire-bells,  break 
ing  the  silence  of  the  night  with  their 
rude  alarm. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FIRE   BURNS   MORE   THAN   HOUSES. 

What  an  excitement  to  the  nerves 
of  a  sleeping  city  is  the  cry  of  fire! 
All  is  wrapped  in  the  death-like  still 
ness  of  slumber,  when  suddenly  the 
fire-bell  startles  the  heavy  silence  with 
its  discordant  clamor.  In  an  incredi 
bly  short  time  all  is  commotion,  win 
dows  are  alight,  voices  are  heard 
everywhere,  and  the  streets  are  all 
abustle  with  excited  people. 

Go  to  a  fire  to  study  human  nature. 
Great  things,  heroic  things  are  done 
there.  There  is  an  inflammability 
about  men  that  makes  them  take  fire 
at  the  sight  of  a  burning  building. 
They  have  a  sudden  and  strong  de 
sire  to  do  something  noble.  Men  who 
can,  without  a  twinge  of  conscience, 
sit  at  home  and  eat  the  bread  earned 
by  the  drudgery  of  their  wives,  risk 
their  precious  lives  for  a  trifle.  "Oh, 

101 


io2          In  White  and  Black. 

the  poor  canary  bird  is  up-stairs!" 
Suddenly  a  stalwart  figure  rushes 
through  smoke  and  cinders  and  in  a 
few  moments  returns  with  the  fright 
ened  bird,  amid  cheers.  To-morrow 
as  to-day  that  man  will  contentedly 
look  on  while  his  mother  builds  a  fire 
under  the  wash-pot  where  his  own 
dirty  linen  must  be  boiled.  It  is  much 
easier  to  be  a  hero  to  all  the  world 
than  to  one's  valet,  or  one's  v/ife  or 
mother  rather.  And  yet  to  be  a  hero 
at  all  is  to  be  it  to  those  who  know  us 
in  the  unending  struggle  of  common 
life. 

There  are  few  people  who  will  set 
trie  world  on  fire,  and  many,  were  it 
on  fire,  would  never  succeed  in  putting 
it  out,  but  most,  in  the  elevation  and 
excitement  of  cosmic  conflagration, 
would  snatch  a  pair  of  worn-out  shoes 
or  other  trumpery  and  straightway, 
with  much  turmoil  and  hot  haste,  toss 
them  into  the  nearest  volcano  for 
safe-keeping;  or,  in  the  absence  of 
such  opportunity,  would  turn  the 
lawn-hose  on  the  moon  to  save  it 
from  the  wreck.  Men  have  been 


Fire  Burns  More  Than  Houses.  103 

known  to  toss  a  two-hundred  dollar 
mirrow  from  a  window  in  the  second 
story,  and  tenderly  carry  a  feather  bed 
down  in  their  arms — to  carry  a  pair  of 
andirons  half  a  block  away,  and  pile 
mahogany  furniture  only  thirty  feet 
from  the  flames. 

On  the  night  of  which  we  are  writ 
ing,  about  the  time  the  town  clock 
struck  two,  the  fire-bell  began  to 
sound  the  alarm  that  waked  Dora 
Melton  from  her  slumber.  She  leapt 
out  of  bed  and,  throwing  up  the  win 
dow,  saw  great  volumes  of  smoke  is 
suing  from  what  seemed  to  her  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  her 
father's  store.  Quickly  calling  her 
father,  who  by  this  time  was  awake, 
she  informed  him  of  her  fear.  As  soon 
as  possible  he  dressed  himself  and 
rushed  out,  to  meet  Aunt  Lylie  on  the 
stairs  coming  in  great  excitement  to 
tell  him  she  had  heard  men  passing 
say  it  was  Melton  and  Ford's  store  on 
fire.  It  was  true.  The  rear  end  of 
the  large  brick  structure  was  a  raging 
furnace  of  flame  before  the  engines 
reached  the  scene.  It  was  there 


104         fa  White  and  Black. 

combustible  oils  and  quantities  of  meat 
were  stored.  These  fed  the  fierce 
flames  and  made  all  efforts  to  subdue 
them  abortive.  The  wind  set  directly 
from  the  south  and  the  building 
fronted  the  north,  so  that  the  flames 
were  driven  steadily  forward  in  their 
destroying"  work.  It  soon  became 
evident  that  the  only  feasible  thing 
was  to  save  the  adjoining  buildings. 

Suddenly  a  cry  of  terror  rang  out 
from  the  crowd  of  onlookers.  A  gust 
of  wind  had  swept  the  shroud  of  black 
smoke  from  the  building,  and  a  burst 
of  flame  lit  up  the  east  windows, 
where  the  building  rose  above  the  ad 
joining  one-story  structure.  At  one 
of  the  windows  in  the  second  story 
the  white,  horrified  face  of  a  man  had 
been  seen.  He  was  making  a  des 
perate  effort  to  get  out.  He  broke 
the  sash  and  strained  with  all  his 
might  at  the  iron  grating  that  de 
fended  the  window  on  the  outside. 
The  bars  began  to  yield  under  the 
frantic  efforts  of  the  prisoner  of  the 
flames.  One  of  the  bars  gave  way 
and  the  crowd  cheered.  Just  then 


Fire  Burns  More  Than  Houses.  105 

came  a  crash  that  made  the  building 
tremble,  the  scared  face  went  down, 
and  a  great  cloud  of  back  smoke  rolled 
up,  shot  through  with  jubilant  tongues 
of  red  flame,  much  as  the  smoke  and 
flames  of  the  bottomless  pit  may  be 
supposed  to  do  when  a  lost  soul  drops 
into  it.  A  stifled  moan  of  horror,  al 
most  more  a  shiver  than  a  moan,  ran 
through  the  crowd,  and  they  turned 
their  sickened  faces  away. 

Who  could  look  calmly  upon  a  scene 
like  that?  Some  may  behold  property 
consume  away  that  represents  years 
of  hard  labor  and  strict  economy,  or 
even  see  works  of  art  shrivel  and 
parch  into  which  the  very  soul  of 
genius  has  wrought  itself  for  the  cen 
turies,  and  remain  unmoved.  But  a 
human  being  with  his  passionate  cling 
ing  to  life,  with  his  nameless  anguish 
when  danger  seizes  him,  his  fierce 
clutching  at  hope,  his  terrific  battle 
against  the  ruthless  giant  whose  hot 
breath  hisses  in  mockery,  his  cries, 
wild  with  terrible  pleading,  heard  only 
by  his  own  ears,  his  fond  thoughts  of 
light  and  fresh  air  and  limpid  waters 


io6          In  White  and  Black. 

that  all  belong-  to  the  past,  the  surren 
der  to  despair,  the  anguish,  the  suffo 
cation — that  forbids  calmness  in  the 
beholder.  To  see  one  hurled  down 
from  life  by  monster  flames,  in  very 
sight  of  the  stars,  from  gazing  into 
the  very  faces  of  one's  fellows,  sym 
pathetic  but  powerless  to  help,  is  a 
scene  from  the  sight  of  which  may  a 
kind  Providence  deliver  us. 

Dora  had  commanded  Aunt  Lylie 
to  go  and  see  that  no  harm  came  to 
her  father.  She  had  just  reached  the 
scene  of  the  fire,  and  in  her  search  for 
Mr.  Melton  she  had  got  as  near  as  the 
intense  heat  would  allow.  She  ap 
proached  from  the  east,  and  was  there 
fore  in  full  view  of  the  windows  on 
that  side.  By  the  pavement  she  found 
a  large  box  which  had  been  rolled  out 
of  the  adjoining  building.  In  order 
to  command  a  better  view  of  the 
crowd,  and,  if  possible,  locate  her 
master,  she  climbed  onto  this  box, 
and  balanced  herself  by  the  branch  of 
a  tree.  This  lifted  her  above  the 
heads  of  the  people  and  gave  her  a 
fine  position  for  observation.  She 


Fire  Burns  More  Than  Ho^lses.  io-j 

hastily  searched  with  a  keen  eye  the 
sea  of  faces  for  that  of  Mr.  Melton, 
but  did  not  find  him.  She  was  about 
to  get  down,  when  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind  swept  a  cloud  of  smoke  that 
way,  and  for  the  moment  she  was 
blinded.  When  the  smoke  had  passed 
she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  window  at 
the  moment  the  frightened  face  of  the 
unfortunate  man  appeared.  She  did 
not  hear  the  cry  of  the  crowd,  but 
only  murmured  "My  Lawd!"  and, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  bent 
forward  with  an  intentness  that  might 
belong  to  a  tiger  seeking  its  prey — or 
to  a  mother  seeking  her  child.  She 
was  not  lacking  in  the  excitability  so 
common  to  her  race,  and  had  she  not 
been  controlled  by  a  more  absorbing 
purpose,  she  would  have  probably  lost 
her  head  and  fled  with  a  shriek.  It  is 
a  well-known  fact  that  when  the  mind 
is  filled  with  a  single  aim  it  steadies 
the  nerves  and  overrides  the  instincts. 
An  artist  may  so  far  conquer  pity  as 
to  paint  the  agony  of  a  tortured  victim. 
The  scientist  may  be  deaf  to  the  cries 
of  the  helpless  animal  that  writhes 


io8          In  White  and  Black. 

under  his  cruel  instruments,  as  he 
traces  life's  elusive  secret  alot>g  the 
track  of  tortured  nerves.  One  who 
would  faint  at  merest  sight  of  blood 
may  be  so  filled  with  the  spirit  of  min 
istry  as  to  move  over  a  battle-field  with 
out  quailing.  Aunt  Lylie  was  too  in 
tent  on  making  sure  of  the  man's  iden 
tity  to  be  deeply  affected  by  thoughts 
of  the  dreadful  fate  to  which  he  was 
exposed.  When  the  crash  came  she 
turned  away,  and  a  beholder  would 
have  marveled  at  the  look  of  satis 
faction  on  her  face.  Just  as  she  stepped 
on  the  ground  her  master  touched  her 
arm  and  said: 

"Where  is  Dora?"  When  she  saw 
he  was  weak  and  exhausted,  she  an 
swered: 

"She  sont  me  arter  you  kase  she's 
oneasy  'bout  you,  she  wan'  you  ter 
come  home."  Without  another  word 
he  turned  and  led  the  way  home. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

VANDALIA'S  MYSTERY. 

Two  absorbing"  questions  disturbed 
the  current  of  Vandalia's  thought 
next  morning  after  the  fire,  questions 
likely  to  remain  unanswered  for  many 
days  hence.  "How  did  the  fire  occur? 
and  who  was  the  unfortunate  man 
who  perished  in  the  flames?"  They 
were  on  everybody's  lips.  Every 
other  subject  was  overshadowed  by 
this  one.  Even  the  weather  was  not 
thought  of  and  the  health  of  the  com 
munity  was  given  a  holiday.  The 
morning-  paper  was  unread  and  un 
quoted,  though  it  contained  sufficient 
sensations  to  set  all  the  nerves  of 
Vandalia  tingling  and  all  her  tongues 
wagging1.  As  to  these  two  questions 
almost  every  man  had  his  own  theory 
for  which  he  was  ready  to  contend,  and 
we  may  as  well  add  that  as  usual  in 
such  cases  they  were  all  equally  false. 

100 


no        In  White  and  Black. 

As  early  as  possible  Mr.  Melton  and 
his  partner  got  their  employees  to 
gether  and  consulted  with  them  as  to 
the  cause  of  the  fire.  Kenyon  was 
f  not  present.  A  runner  was  sent  to  his 
boarding-house,  but  he  was  not  there 
and  had  not  been  during  the  night. 
Neither  had  he  been  to  supper  or 
breakfast.  All  of  his  belongings  were 
in  his  room.  No  one  could  be  found 
who  had  seen  him  since  he  left  the 
store  the  day  before.  It  was  custom 
ary  for  one  of  the  clerks  to  sleep  in 
the  store  every  night,  as  a  protection 
against  the  lawlessness  that  prevailed 
at  that  time. 

Lawrance  always  slept  there  at  the 
first  of  each  month,  as  it  was  neces 
sary  in  posting  up  the  accounts  of  the 
month  for  him  to  work  late  at  night. 
All  of  which  seemed  almost  con 
clusive  that  it  was  he  who  had  perished. 
He  was  the  only  one  who  was  missing, 
and  that  some  one  perished  in  the 
flames  there  were  well-nigh  a  thous 
and  eye-witnesses  to  testify.  Who 
else  could  it  have  been?  This  very 
natural  conclusion  soon  took  posses- 


Vandalirfs  Mystery.          in 

sion  of  the  multitude,  and  there  was 
much  sorrow  at  the  tragic  end  of  a  life 
in  which  everyone  could  now  find  so 
many  excellencies.  Many  who  had 
never  even  by  a  kind  look  shed  one 
ray  of  approbation  on  the  path  of  Law- 
ranee  Kenyon  living"  were  ready  to 
lavish  extravagant  praise  on  Law- 
ranee  Kenyon  dead.  It  came  with  a 
heavy  blow  to  the  proprietors,  es 
pecially  so  to  Mr.  Melton  and  for 
reasons  with  which  the  reader  is  fa 
miliar.  His  steadiness,  competency, 
faithfulness  and  courtesy  had  won  for 
Lawrance  a  warm  place  in  the  hearts 
of  his  employers  and  their  regret  was 
deepened  by  the  belief  that  his  life 
had  been  sacrificed  in  trying  in  some 
way  to  save  the  store.  To  all  it  was 
a  terrible  tragedy,  and  cast  a  deep 
gloom  over  the  community. 

Soon  another  view  began  to  be  dis 
cussed,  set  afloat  by  no  one  knew 
whom,  but  gradually  spreading,  as 
such  things  will,  until  it  was  in  many 
mouths.  It  was  that  Lawrance  had 
burned  the  store,  or  procured  accom 
plices  to  do  it,  and  that  he  had  fled 


ii2         In  White  and  Black. 

from  the  consequences  of  his  crime. 
That  it  was  the  work  of  an  incendiary 
seemed  certain,  as  there  was  no  fire 
about  the  building"  at  that  season  of 
the  year.     It  was  whispered  that  there 
was  a  motive  in  a  recent  affair  of  the 
heart  in  which  Mr.  Melton  had  inter 
fered.    Suspicious  characters  had  been 
seen   in  the  neighborhood  at   a  late 
hour  the  night  of  the  fire.     Lawrance's 
strange  behavior  in  leaving  the  store 
and  failing  to  appear  at  supper  were 
urged  against  him.     It  was  doubtless 
one  of  his  confederates  who  had  been 
caught  by  the  flames  in  a  greedy  effort 
at  plunder.     Lawrance  knew  the  store 
too  well  to  have  allowed  himself  im 
prisoned  in  that  way.     He  could  have 
used  the  elevator,  and  the  way  of  es 
cape  by  the  front  door  was  open.     The 
victim  was  one  who  was  ignorant  of 
the  surroundings. 

In  a  still  lower  whisper  it  was  said 
there  were  those  who  knew  things  in 
his  past  if  they  cared  to  tell.  Thus 
there  are  tongues  that  would  rob  even 
the  ashes  of  a  martyr  of  their  sacred- 
ness,  from  whose  venom  there  is  no 


Vandalids  Mystery.          113 

escape  even  in  the  grave.  No  one 
seemed  to  know  where  this  opinion 
originated;  we  can  only  guess  where 
the  motive  lay  to  rob  the  memory  of 
Lawrance  dead  of  its  purity,  or  despoil 
the  name  of  Lawrance  living  of  its 
honor.  It  is  not  so  remarkable  that 
such  a  conjecture  could  be  set  afloat, 
but  that  there  could  be  found  so  many 
who  would  adopt  it.  The  opinions 
soon  became  about  equally  divided. 

When  Aunt  Lylie  returned  from  the 
scene  of  the  fire  she  hastened  up  to 
Dora's  room  and  whispered  some 
thing  in  her  ear  that  made  her  start 
and  turn  pale,  then  it  seemed  to  give 
her  an  assurance  that  comforted.  She 
did  not  know  all  that  had  occurred  at 
the  fire.  Aunt  Lylie's  hurried  mes 
sage  had  evidently  contained  some 
hint  of  the  sickening  horror.  When 
her  father  entered  he  studiously 
avoided  any  allusion  to  that  feature  of 
the  catastrophe.  He  was  much  de 
pressed  and  shaken,  and,  though  he 
strove  hard  to  hide  it  for  the  sake  of 
Dora,  he  could  not  quite  succeed 
in  blinding  her  loving  eyes  to  the 


H4        In  White  and  Black. 

fact  that  something  more  than  finan 
cial  loss  weighed  on  his  mind.  He 
did  not  know  that  Aunt  Lylie  had 
seen  the  face  at  the  window,  and  con 
sequently  had  not  cautioned  her  as  he 
would  have  otherwise  done  against 
mentioning  that  matter  to  Dora.  Of 
course  the  whole  affair  could  not  be 
long  concealed  from  her,  but  he  was 
moved  by  a  father's  desire  to  shield 
her  as  long  as  possible,  and  by  the 
vague  hope  that  morning  might  re 
solve  his  fears,  though  all  efforts  to 
find  Lawrance  that  night  were  un 
availing. 

This  is  what  Aunt  Lylie  whispered 
to  Dora: 

"It  wa'n't  Mars  Lawrance  whut  got 
bu'nt,  fur  I  seed  'im  wid  my  own  eyes." 

After  Mr.  Melton  retired  to  his  room 
Dora  eagerly  asked  for  an  explana 
tion.  This  was  Aunt  Lylie's  answer: 

During  the  brief  space  in  which  the 
man  at  the  window  had  appeared  to 
her  she  had  taken  in  all  the  details. 
She  could  have  sworn  to  the  follow 
ing  description  of  the  man:  He  was 
broad  shouldered  and  muscular.  His 


yandalias  Mystery %          115 

face  wore  a  mask  of  grizzly  beard. 
His  hair  was  long  and  bushy,  and 
over  it  he  wore  an  old  fur  cap.  His 
shirt  was  not  by  any  means  white,  and 
he  wore  only  a  part  of  a  coat,  one  half 
of  a  ragged  sleeve  dangling  about  his  & 
right  arm. 

That  she  saw  so  much  while  others 
saw  only  a  startled  face  is  no  great 
marvel.  She  occupied  a  favorable 
position,  at  an  angle  also  where  the 
light  favored  clearness  of  vision.  She 
was  alert  with  a  reason  for  making 
sure.  She  was  seeing  for  Dora.  She 
knew  that  Lawrance  was  likely  to  be 
there  at  the  first  of  the  month.  She 
felt  she  must  make  sure.  There  are 
emergencies  when  the  soul  concen 
trates  its  powers  in  eye  or  ear,  and  ap 
parent  miracles  of  perception  are 
wrought.  Besides,  the  habit  of  min 
ute  observation  belongs  most  to  peo 
ple  of  rude  cultivation.  Begging 
Aunt  Lylie's  pardon  for  the  compari-  t 
son,  the  lower  animals  have  the  power 
of  sense  perception  far  beyond  man. 
It  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  compensation 
in  nature  that  where  culture  is  denied 


116        In  White  and  Black. 

instinct  is  quickened,  and  keenness 
is  proportioned  to  lack  of  breadth. 
Aunt  Lylie  would  never  have  discov 
ered  the  law  of  gravitation  from  a 
falling-  apple,  but  she  would  have 
known  exactly  the  kind,  size,  and  color 
of  the  apple.  She  would  not  have 
written  the  "Principia,"  but  no  more 
would  she  have  cut  two  holes  under 
the  door,  a  large  one  for  the  old  cat 
and  a  smaller  one  for  the  kitten.  Her 
mind  was  not  busied  with  a  great  va 
riety  of  subjects,  but  it  acted  with 
lightning-like  rapidity  and  almost  me 
chanical  accuracy  on  the  facts  that 
came  within  its  narrow  range. 

Though  Lawrance  himself  had  not 
been  seen,  Dora  was  reassured  by 
Aunt  Lylie's  recital,  and,  while  the 
identity  of  the  unfortunate  man  was  a 
mystery  on  which  she  could  not  form 
a  reasonable  conjecture,  she  trusted 
the  day  would  bring  light  for  the  solu 
tion  of  it  all.  She  had  not  even  thought 
of  the  possibility  of  Lawrance  being 
accused  of  burning  the  store.  She 
was  spared  that  pain  for  the  present. 

What  was  her  astonishment  and 


Vandalias  Mystery. 

terror  to  learn  next  day  that  Kenyon 
had  disappeared  and  no  trace  of  him 
was  to  be  found.  This  was  some 
thing  she  had  not  thought  of.  If 
Aunt  Lylie  was  right  in  her  observa 
tions  she  had  no  doubt  he  would  be  at 
hand  next  day  to  answer  for  himself. 
But  to  learn  that  he  was  nowhere  to 
be  found  filled  her  with  the  most 
unspeakable  terror.  After  all,  she 
thought,  for  once  Aunt  Lylie  must 
have  been  wrong,  else  what  had  be 
come  of  him?  The  fearful  contem 
plation  sent  the  iron  deep  into  her 
soul.  She  tried  hard  to  be  brave,  she 
tried  hard  to  hope,  but  who  could  be 
brave,  who  could  hope,  in  the  face  of 
such  a  condition?  She  was  almost 
beside  herself  when  this  revelation 
was  brought  to  her  by  Ben  during  the 
morning.  Aunt  Lylie  led  her  into  the 
house  and  sat  down  and  talked  to  her: 
"Now,  honey,  lemmetell  you,  Mars 
Lawrance  ain'  got  bun't  in  dat  sto'. 
Am'  I  dun  an'  seed  de  man  wid  dese 
eyes,  an'  I  tell  you  'twan  'no  mo'  lack 
Mars  Lawrance  dan  I'se  lack  yo' 
own  sef,  an'  de  Lawd  knows  dat's 


In  White  and  Black. 

sayin'  a  heap.  'Sides  what  mek  'im 
wan'  git  bun't  when  he  knows  ev'y 
crook  an'  turn  in  de  house?  Ef  he 
cotch  up  stairs,  how  cum  'e  can'  cum 
down  on  de  elevator  f o'  de  fire  reached 
it,  or  ef  'e  can'  do  dat,  'e  can  go  to  de 
front  an'  motion  to  um,  an'  dey'd  put 
up  a  ladder  an'  tuck  'im  down.  De 
man  what  got  bun't  wan'  in  dat  sto' 
for  no  good,  and  he  was  a  wantin'  ter 
git  out  'dout  nobody  seein'  'im,  an'  'e 
look  zackly  lack  dat  sort  o'  cattle,  as 
well  as  ac'  lack  it.  Dat's  de  reason 
he  doan  go  to  de  front  whar  dey  a  in' 
no  fire  an'  holler  fur  he'p.  Mek  your 
min'  res'  easy 'bout  dat,fur  I  done  tole 
you  an'  I  tell  you  agin  hit  warn'  Mars 
Lawrance  no  mo'  dan  hit  was  you. 
As  to  whar  'e  is  I  can't  zackly  mek 
dat  out,  but  we  gwine  fin'  out.  We 
mus'  be  patient.  De  Lawd  gwine 
straiten  it  out  in  'is  own  time." 

With  wonderful  skill  Aunt  Lylie 
had  touched  every  hopeful  chord  in 
Dora's  bosom.  There  was  a  force  in 
her  words  and  a  contagious  confi 
dence  in  her  manner,  that  were  almost 
irresistible  and  Dora  found  herself 


Vandalias  Mystery.          ilg 

reassured.  But  it  was  a  forbidding 
situation  that  faced  her.  The  contrast 
between  to-day  and  yesterday  was 
great  indeed.  Then  God  seemed  to 
caress  her,  now  He  was  smiting.  Yes 
terday  her  heart  was  delirious  with 
joy,  to-day  it  was  wild  with  pain. 

While  she  indignantly  rejected  the 
idea  of  crime,  and  while  she  could  not 
believe  it  was  Lawrance  who  met 
death  in  the  flames,  there  still  re 
mained  the  fact  of  his  absence. 
Where  had  he  gone  and  why  had  he 
disappeared  in  that  mysterious  way? 
This  question  grew  more  and  more 
perplexing  to  her  as  the  days  wore  on 
and  no  trace  or  hint  was  found  to 
throw  any  light  on  the  mystery. 

It  was  only  little  less  a  grief  to  her 
to  believe  he  would  leave  her  without 
a  word  after  what  had  passed  between 
them  than  to  believe  he  had  died 
with  tender  thoughts  of  her,  and  with 
that  splendid  fidelity  to  the  heart  that 
trusted  him,  which  she  had  fancied  he 
possessed.  Her  position  was  a  trying 
one.  She  could  not  even  inquire 
about  him.  His  relation  to  her  was 


izo        In  White  and  Black. 

not  known  and  had  it  been,  the  fact 
that  he  had  thus  deserted  her  without 
an  explanation  would  have  forced  her 
to  be  silent.  As  she  pondered  these 
things  the  darkness  seemed  to  thicken, 
and  her  heart  ached  none  the  less  that 
she  must  hide  its  soreness.  Through 
all  she  clung  to  the  hope,  even  the  be 
lief,  that  her  lover  was  true  to  her. 
She  had  a  vague,  half-formed  thought 
that  some  one  was  in  some  way  re 
sponsible  for  his  disappearance;  how, 
she  hardly  dared  to  even  conjecture. 
She  was  like  children  who  sit  at 
evening  and  watch  the  shifting  clouds, 
and  build  with  their  imaginations  a 
thousand  forms,  never  quite  clear,  al 
ways  imperfect,  but  pleasing  in  their 
resemblance  to  well-known  objects. 
Thus  day  by  day  the  clouds  of  un 
certainty  lay  heavy  on  the  horizon  of 
her  thought,  taking  the  changing 
shapes  her  fancy  gave  them.  Noth 
ing  is  so  trying  as  perplexity,  as  a 
vague  suspense,  not  to  know  the  cause 
or  nature  of  your  trouble.  To  fold 
your  hands  and  wait  without  even 
knowing  how  to  set  about  resisting, 


Vandalids  Mystery.          121 

like  one  beset  in  the  dark  by  foes 
whose  weapons  we  can  not  even  see, 
is  a  frightful  position.  Such  was 
Dora's  case.  The  nature  of  her 
trouble  she  did  not  understand,  and 
she  was  forbidden  by  all  the  circum 
stances  to  attempt  to  either  fathom  or 
to  remedy  it.  Did  she  know  where 
Lawrance  was  she  could  not  utter  a 
syllable  to  call  him  back,  or  let  him 
hear  one  sigh  of  regret. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ANOTHER  VICTIM. 

The  days  wore  on,  and  still  there 
was  no  light  on  the  dark  mystery. 
Everything  had  settled  down  to  its 
old  routine.  Politics,  health,  and  busi 
ness  had  resumed  their  usual  sway 
over  the  Vandalian  mind.  The  affairs 
of  life  are  entirely  too  urgent,  its  strug 
gle  entirely  too  intense,  for  the  pass 
ing  out  of  one  man  to  long  break  the 
current.  The  breaking  of  one  or 
more  hearts  in  a  community  is  not  a 
matter  on  which  men  bestow  more 
than  a  brief  sigh  or  two.  One  of  the 
most  pathetic  things  in  all  life's  trag 
edy  is  the  fact  that  each  must  live 
his  life  alone;  that  each  heart  must 
bear  its  own  burden,  and  scarcely  an 
ear  be  found  with  time  and  patience 
to  hear  the  story;  and  when  at  last  the 
burden  is  laid  down,  those  to  whom 
we  have  been  closest  will  chaffer  and 

133 


Another  Victim.  123 

trade  and  toil  in  life's  common-place 
treadmill  in  very  sight  of  the  fresh 
mound  above  our  silent  breasts.  We 
only  see  the  surface  of  each  other's 
;  lives,  and  just  now  and  then  the  depths 
even  of  our  own.  But  sin  and  sorrow 
never  rest. 

Two  weeks  after  the  fire,  Ben  drove 
his  team  down  to  the  creek  at  noon 
and  found  Roswell  Grantley  standing 
at  the  same  spot  as  before. 

"Well,  Ben,"  he  said,  after  exchang 
ing  pleasant  greetings,  "how  are 
things  getting  on  at  the  big  house?" 

"Mighty  bad,  Mars  Roswell." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  now?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Ole  Marster,  he 
been  pow'ful  trouble  'bout  de  fire,  an' 
Miss  Dory  ain'  lack  'ersef  no  mo'n  ef 
she  ain'  de  same  pusson,  an'  Mammie 
all  de  time  worried  'bout  um,  an'  hit 
doan'  seem  lack  de  ole  place  no  mo'." 

"What  do  you  think  has  become  of 
Mr.  Kenyon?" 

"I  doan'  know,  sah,"  shaking  his 
head.  "Hit  mighty  cu'ious.  I  done 
an'  stop  thinkin'." 


124         In  White  and  Black. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  got  burnt  in 
the  fire?" 

"No,sah;  I  can't  'zackly  make  it  out 
dat  way,  'case  Mammie  seed  de  man 
what  got  bu'nt  an'  she  say  she  know 
tain't  him.  'Sides  dey  wa'n't  no  sign  'o 
him  in  de  ashes,  fur  we  sarched  um 
keerfuL  Seem  lack  'is  watch  or 
sumpin  'ud  been  dar  ef  'e's  bu'nt. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Dora  refused  him 
and  that  made  him  leave  the  town, 
and  perhaps  burn  the  store,  too." 
This  was  spoken  with  the  inflexion  of 
an  interrogatory  rather  than  a  surmise 
of  his  own.  In  fact  this  was  the  the 
ory  Roswell  was  anxious  to  confirm. 
It  was  a  palliative  to  his  own  con 
science  for  the  part  he  had  played,  to 
believe  Lawrance  capable  of  such  a 
crime.  The  devil  is  a  great  sophist. 

Ben  shook  his  head  again.  He 
knew  more  than  he  dared  tell.  He 
only  replied :  "What  fur  she  pinin'  so 
den,  ef  she  done  an  'fused  'im?" 

This  conversation  revealed  to  Ros 
well  what  he  wished  to  gather,  name 
ly,  the  state  of  Dora's  mind,  and  what 
the  opinion  was  at  the  Melton  home- 


Another  Victim.  125 

stead  as  to  Kenyon's  absence.  Also 
it  was  news  to  him  that  Aunt  Lylie 
had  testified  that  Kenyon  was  not 
burned.  He  walked  homeward  pon 
dering  these  things.  He  had  by  no 
means  given  up  his  hope  of  winning 
Dora,  but  was  busy  with  plans  for 
compassing  that  hope.  Kenyon  out 
of  the  way,  if  he  could  erase  the  noble 
picture  from  her  mind  or  blur  it  with 
suspicion,  time  and  skill  would  do  the 
rest.  He  was  patient  as  he  was  reso 
lute,  and  as  unscrupulous  as  patient. 

Ben  had  promised  his  mother  he 
would  tell  her  whatever  he  heard 
about  Kenyon.  She  had  a  vague  be 
lief  that  Roswell  somehow  had  to  do 
with  his  disappearance.  She  had 
caught  at  Ben's  new  partiality  for 
Roswell  as  a  possible  means  of  reach 
ing  some  clue. 

So  when  Ben  came  to  dinner  he 
told  her  what  had  passed  between 
him  and  Roswell,  dwelling  especially 
on  the  suggestion  that  perhaps  the 
disappearance  and  the  fire  were  to  be 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  Dora 
had  refused  Lawrance.  Ben  would 


i26        In  White  and  Black. 

have  been  startled  had  he  seen  at  that 
moment  the  expression  on  his  Mam- 
mie's  face.  After  a  minute's  silence 
she  asked  in  a  tone  that  made  him 
Uook  quickly  up: 

"How  cum  he  know  dat  Mars  Law- 
ranee  cou't  Dodie?" 

This  was  unexpected.  He  had  not 
thought  but  that  it  was  an  open  se 
cret.  Time  had  thrown  him  off  his 
guard.  The  weight  of  his  guilty  im 
prudence  fell  upon  him  with  crushing 
force,  and  he  blurted  out  the  whole 
story  of  how  he  had  before  told  the 
secret.  Aunt  Lylie  did  not  wait  for 
him  to  stammer  his  apology  or  ask 
forgiveness  as  he  began  to  do,  but 
stood  over  him,  her  eyes  flashing  and 
her  whole  form  quivering  with  rage. 
Her  strong  hands  clutched  his  shoul 
ders  with  a  force  that  almost  sent  her 
fingers  into  the  flesh,  and  her  hot 
breath  almost  burnt  his  face,  as  she 
poured  a  perfect  flood  of  invectives  on  \ 
his  devoted  head. 

"Ain'  I  dun  an'  tole  you  you  musn't 
go  tellin'  what  you  seed  dat  night? 
Ain'  you  done  an'  promus'  me  you 


Another  Victim.  127 

won'  tell?  Den  you  tole  it,  an'  sides 
you  tole  me  a  lie  'bout  it.  You  de 
cause  o'  all  dis  trouble,  an'  you  de 
chile  what  I  brung  up  an'  what  I  lub'd 
nex'  to  de  lam'  yander  in  de  big  house. 
Is  it  fur  dis  I  done  an'  nuss  you  day 
an'  night,  an'  bfung  you  up  to  tromple 
on  folks's  hearts  in  dis  way?  Hit 
hu'ts  me  to  see  you.  I  can't  never 
trus'  you  no  mo'.  Leab  de  house  dis 
minnit,  an'  doan'  you  nebber  set  yo' 
foot  in  it  no  mo'."  Pushing  him  from 
her,  she  pointed  to  the  door. 

Ben's  face  was  ashen.  He  tried  to 
speak  but  could  only  stammer.  He 
could  not  see  why  his  revelation  was 
such  a  crime.  And,  the  truth  is,  it 
played  a  very  small  part  in  the  final 
result,  but  in  Aunt  Lylie's  mind  there 
was  one  subject  dwelling,  and  it  was 
but  natural  she  should  exaggerate 
everything  connected  with  it,  and  that 
her  feelings  on  that  subject  should  be 
intense.  Ben  stood  outside  the  door 
dumbfounded,  stunned,  and  at  a  loss 
what  he  should  do.  He  heard  his 
mother  say  in  a  voice  that  he  imagined 
was  a  little  more  subdued,  "Wait." 


128        In  White  and  Black. 

Then  she  went  in  her  own  room,  and 
soon  came  back  with  a  bundle  in  one 
hand  and  a  small  package  in  the  other. 
He  did  not  see  her  for  he  was  look 
ing  at  the  ground.  She  threw  both 
bundle  and  package  at  his  feet,  then 
shut  the  door  and  burst  into  sobs — 
which  he  did  not  hear.  The  bundle 
was  his  clothes,  the  package  the  wages 
she  had  been  saving  for  him.  Ben's 
heart  sank  like  lead  now,  for  he  knew 
that  her  decision  was  final,  and  if  it 
had  not  been,  he  was  too  wounded  to 
sue  for  peace,  so  he  slowly  took  him 
self  off,  not  knowing  whither. 

He  loved  everything  and  everybody 
about  the  place.  There  was  not  a  tree 
in  the  neighborhood  under  which  he 
had  not  played  with  his  young  master 
who  was  killed  in  the  battle  of  Ma- 
nassas.  As  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
latch  of  the  back  gate  he  thought  he 
heard  his  mother's  voice.  Perhaps 
she  was  calling  him  back.  No;  it  was 
only  the  whine  of  the  old  dog,  that 
crept  out  as  if  to  sympathize.  Ben 
hesitated.  Perhaps  if  he  should  go 
back  now  his  mother  would  relent,  he 


Another  Victim.  129 

thought,  and  perhaps  she  would  have 
done  so,  who  knows?  but  he  blindly 
felt  he  had  been  wronged.  He  knew 
she  would  suffer,  and  he  was  wicked 
enough  to  be  willing  she  should,  and 
so  he  raised  the  latch  and  went  out. 
He  chose  his  way  across  the  horse- 
lot.  He  must  bid  adieu  to  Lincoln  and 
Davis.  At  that  moment  Davis  was 
devouring  a  bundle  of  oats  in  great 
mouthfuls  in  his  clean  stall,  and  Lin 
coln  had  walked  out  in  the  sun  and 
was  rubbing  his  nose  against  the  gate. 
He  greeted  Ben  with  a  low  whinny 
and  put  out  his  head  for  a  caress. 
Ben  did  not  speak  his  greeting  as  was 
his  custom,  but  drawing  the  faithful 
head  to  him  he  looked  silently  into  the 
great  kindly  eyes.  The  horse  seemed 
to  realize  something  was  wrong,  as  he 
gently  rubbed  his  head  against  Ben's 
shoulder.  As  for  Ben,  the  big  tears 
were  chasing  each  other  down  his 
cheeks.  He  could  only  murmur,  "Poor 
ole  Lincum,  who's  gwine  to  keer  fur 
you  now?"  He  went  into  the  stable 
where  Davis  was  eating  his  oats,  and 


I  jo         In  White  and  Black. 

laying  his  arm  around  the  great,  glossy 
neck,  he  found  his  voice. 

"Well,  Davis,  I  bleegedterleab  you. 
You  dun  some  clean,  squar  pullin'  fur 
me  many  a  time.  I  dun  an'  druv  you 
all  your  natyal  life.  I  'members  when 
I  fus'  brek  you  an'  I  ain'  let  nobody 
'buse  you.  Don't  you  'member  when 
I  whup  Tom  Lucas  case  he  hit  you  wid 
er  rock?  I'd  do  it  agin',  old  boy,  but 
I  can't  be  wid  you  no  mo'.  Ben's 
gwine  fur  away,  an'  he  hates  to  leab 
you" — here  his  voice  broke,  and  press 
ing  his  cheek  to  the  shining  neck  of 
the  noble  horse,  once  more  he  picked 
up  his  bundle  and  started.  Both 
horses  followed  him  as  far  as  they 
could  and,  as  far  as  he  could  see  them, 
stood  watching  him.  "The  ways  of 
man  are  as  inscrutable  to  a  horse  as 
the  ways  of  God  are  to  men."  Long 
afterwards  Ben  remembered  with  sad 
pleasure  the  parting  look  of  these  two 
friends  of  his  youth. 

Aunt  Lylie  sat  down  and  pondered. 
This  was  her  hardest  blow.  Do  we 
call  it  an  unnatural  [deed?  Let  us  re 
member  this  poor,  passionate  negro 


Another  Victim.  131 

had  another  love,  and  that,  untaught 
though  she  was,  she  had  a  conscience. 
What  it  cost  her  to  exile  her  boy  we 
may  not  know,  let  us  not  try  to  guess. 
Conscience  is  a  costly  thing.  She  had 
simply  laid  her  love  for  Ben  on  the 
altar  of  her  duty  to  Dora.  Had  she 
failed  in  this  proof  of  her  devotion  she 
could  no  more  have  held  up  her  head. 
The  deed  was  done,  the  shadows  deep 
ened  on  her  path,  but  she  did  not 
waver. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  PRICE  OF  A  MAN. 

The  Melton  and  Ford  fire  had  been 
adjusted  between  the  firm  and  the 

Insurance  Company,  in  which 

building  and  stock  were  insured.  In 
this  Roswell  Grantley  had  figured 
conspicuously,  because  he  held  the 
policies  as  collateral  for  loans  already 
past  due,  and  had  made  it  pretty  plain 
that  he  would  not  allow  further  ex 
tension. 

Very  soon  after  the  fire  a  lawyer 
representing  the  aforesaid  company 
called  on  Roswell  to  settle  these  poli 
cies,  according  to  an  arrangement 
made  between  the  firm  and  the  com 
pany.  After  the  business  had  been 
transacted,  Roswell  made  sure  that 
no  one  was  listening,  and  introduced 
the  interesting  theme  of  the  origin  of 
the  fire. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what 
m 


The  Price  of  a  Man.         133 

you  think  of  this  fire?"  he  said,  turn 
ing-  from  his  desk  and  facing"  the 
lawyer. 

The  lawyer  was  silent  for  a  mo 
ment,  either  from  professional  habit 
or  from  a  natural  desire  to  speak 
cautiously  and  not  hastily,  then  re 
plied,  "That  there  was  no  fraud  we 
have  all  agreed.  If  there  was  ever 
any  doubt  on  that  score,  it  exists  no 
longer.  Then  we  are  shut  up  to  one 
of  two  theories,  incendiarism  or  acci 
dent.  I  am  inclined  to  the  latter,  Mr. 
Grantley.  The  facts  point  that  way." 

Roswell  received  this  reply  with 
that  expression  which  means,  "I  know 
more  than  you  can  tell  me,"  and  when 
he  answered  it  was  as  one  who  is 
confident  of  his  facts. 

"When  you  know  the  facts,  you 
will  reverse  your  opinion.  If  you  will 
not  divulge  the  source  of  your  infor 
mation,  I  will  outline  these  facts  to 
you  and  put  you  on  the  right  scent. 
May  I  have  your  promise,  Mr.  Logan?" 

"Certainly,  what  passes  between  us 
shall  be  a  professional  secret,  and  I 
shall  thank  you  for  your  trouble." 


134        ?n  White  and  Black. 

"Oh,  it  is  no  trouble  to  talk  of  what 
interests  one.  This  case  interests  me, 
and  I  fancy  I  have  gone  further  into 
it  than  any  other  man."  Roswell 
paused  with  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  Mr. 
Logan's  face  to  see  that  he  had  his 
mind  fully.  The  lawyer  was  inter 
ested. 

"May  I  take  down  the  facts  you 
propose  to  give  me?"  asked  Mr. 
Logan. 

"I  have  no  objection,  if  you  think 
they  will  be  useful  to  you.  Besides,  I 
will  save  you  the  trouble  of  asking  a 
question  by  answering  it  now:  the 
facts  I  shall  outline  can  all  be  proven." 

"Let  us  admit  there  is  no  direct 
proof  of  arson.  We  must  look  to  the 
circumstances.  These  are:  The  fire 
began  late  at  night,  when  there  was 
least  likelihood  of  its  being  discovered 
and  extinguished;  it  began  in  the  part 
most  combustible  and  on  the  interior, 
pointing  to  someone  who  knew  the 
building  and  had  access  to  it .  If  done 
by  an  incendiary  it  must  have  been 
for  cause.  Men  do  not  do  such  things 
without  a  motive." 


The  Price  of  a  Man.         135 

"Slowly,  please;  I  wish  to  be  accu 
rate,"  said  Mr.  Logan. 

Roswell  continued  more  deliber 
ately: 

'There  is  a  man  who  fulfills  all 
these  requirements.  This  man  has 
not  been  heard  of  nor  accounted  for 
since  the  fire.  He  was  seen  with  some 
suspicious  characters  in  a  low  dive  the 
day  before  the  fire  occurred.  None  of 
these  have  been  about  town  since 
the  fire.  One  man  was  supposed  to 
have  perished  in  the  flames.  If  any 
one  suffered  that  fate,  it  was  not  the 
man  under  suspicion,  for  he  left  the 
city  that  night  on  foot.  Did  he  have 
a  motive?  Several:  first,  a  love  af 
fair,  and  the  sting  of  rejection;  second, 
he  had  been  discharged  from  the  em 
ploy  of  the  firm  and  received  notice 
of  it  that  afternoon;  third,  he  was  an 
adventurer  who  came  into  the  com 
munity  without  character  or  ante 
cedents,  and  there  were  funds  to  be 
had,  and  valuables  to  which  he  had  ac 
cess.  You  know  to  whom  I  refer." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  lawyer 
was  deeply  impressed.  Roswell  was 


In  White  and  Black. 

waiting-  for  a  reply.  It  came  in  the 
form  of  a  question,  "But  why  did  this 
man  fly?  Did  he  not  know  that  would 
be  the  means  of  fixing  suspicion  on 
him?" 

'The  flight  was  an  afterthought/' 
saidRoswell.  "Guilt  is  panicky.  One's 
shrewdness  breaks  down  under  it  and 
'conscience  doth  make  cowards  of  us 
all.'  In  the  event  of  arrest,  I  am  con 
fident  proof  will  be  forthcoming  which 
would  convince  a  jury  of  his  guilt." 

"Why  have  you  not  interested  the 
firm  in  this?"  asked  Mr.  Logan. 

"For  the  simple  reason  that  I  did 
not  wish  to  be  mixed  up  with  it,  and 
then  besides  there  are  reasons  of  a 
delicate  nature  why  it  could  not  be 
done.  My  suggestion  would  be  that 
your  company  offer  a  reward  for  ar 
rest  sufficient  to  attract  attention,  and 
put  men  on  the  lookout  all  over  the 
land.  Such  a  measure  would  prove  a 
good  investment  in  deterring  men 
from  like  crimes.  To  come  at  once  to 
the  gist  of  the  matter,  such  is  my 
interest  in  the  case  I  am  willing  to 


The  Price  of  a  Man.          137 

assist  by  paying  one-half  the  reward, 
if  it  is  made  large  enough." 

"What  would  you  consider  large 
enough  to  reach  the  case?" 

"No  less  than  one  thousand  dol 
lars." 

"And  you  will  authorize  me  to  say 
you  offer  to  furnish  one -half  that 
amount,  if  the  company  I  represent 
will  offer  the  remaining  five  hundred 
dollars?" 

"I  do.  Only  I  am  not  to  be  known 
in  it  to  any  one  but  yourself.  Do 
you  understand?" 

"Mr.  Grantley,'you  have  astonished 
me,  both  by  your  detail  of  facts,  and  by 
your  unusually  liberal  offer,  and  I  shall 
certainly  recommend  that  course  to 
my  people." 

"It  is  with  you  and  them  now,  and 
if  they  do  not  choose  to  meet  my  offer, 
I  shall  give  myself  no  further  trouble 
about  the  matter." 

When  they  parted,  Roswell  was 
sure  he  had  carried  his  point.  He  had 
won  the  aid  of  a  great  corporation  in 
crushing  his  rival.  For  if  Lawrance 
was  never  arrested,  the  price  on  his 


138         In  White  and  Black. 

head  would  ruin  his  reputation.  If  he 
were  arrested,  and  not  convicted,  the 
very  fact  of  a  criminal  trial  would 
brand  him  with  infamy  enough. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

A  WAIF   AND   HIS    STORY. 

Dora  was  one  day  called  upon  by  a 
boy  the  fashion  of  whose  clothing",  the 
quality  of  whose  manners  and  the 
flavor  of  whose  dialect  bespoke  his 
citizenship  in  the  great  outer  world  of 
the  homeless.  They  presented  a  cu 
rious  contrast,  those  two,  as  they 
stood  in  the  door,  he  speaking  earn 
estly,  she  listening;  intently.  His  er 
rand  was  one  of  mercy.  In  brief,  there 
was  a  sick  boy  in  a  hovel  not  far  away 
without  food  or  friends  or  physic.  .  He 
had  tossed  and  raved  the  whole  nig~ht 
about  his  mother,  who  was  dead.  This 
boy  alone  had  watched  by  him  and 
done  what  he  could,  and  had  come  for 
her  because  he  could  do  no  more. 
Would  she  come  with  him?  There 
was  the  accent  of  sincere  pity  in  the 
voice  and  genuine  pleading"  in  the  eyes 
of  this  child  of  nature  as  he  plead  the 


ISO 


140         In  IVhite  and  Black. 

cause  of  his  "pal"  in  quaint  speech, 
that  was  eloquent  to  the  ears  of  Dora, 
because  her  ears  were  eloquent  with 
sympathy.  Would  she  go?  The 
reader  has  already  answered  for  her. 
She  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
noisome  air  of  the  alleys,  and  scenes 
of  wretchedness  were  familiar  to  her 
eyes,  for  her  heart  had  been  schooled 
to  pity,  and  her  feet  had  learned  to 
follow  the  feet  of  the  Lowly  One. 

Soon  she  found  herself  in  a  rude 
shanty,  dirty,  and  destitute  of  the  bar 
est  comforts,  the  way  to  which  she  had 
found  paved  with  broken  bottles,  ash- 
heaps,  tin  cans,  with  now  and  then  a 
still  less  aesthetic  object.  In  a  corner 
on  a  scant  pallet  lay  a  boy  of  some 
thing  like  a  dozen  years,  burning  with 
fever,  and  striving  to  make  out  with  his 
wild  delirious  eyes  what  it  all  meant, 
as  she  knelt  by  his  side.  It  awoke  all 
the  pity  of  her  heart  to  see  him  strug 
gle  with  the  tangled  thoughts  and  con 
fused  images  of  his  fevered  brain,  un 
certain  whether  Dora  was  his  mother 
come  back  to  him,  or  a  witch  blowing 
hotter  the  fires  in  his  blood,  or  an  an- 


A  IV aif  and  His  Story.        141 

gel  come  to  carry  him  to  his  mother. 
There  is  that  in  a  gentle  woman's 
touch  that  is  more  than  medicine,  and 
as  Dora's  caresses  fell  soothingly  upon 
his  aching  brow,  and  as  her  voice  fell 
like  a  caress  upon  his  ear,  the  rebel 
lious,  distressed  nerves  began  to  grow 
calm  and  intelligence  began  to  rally. 
In  a  short  time,  by  the  aid  of  a  simple 
stimulant,  and  a  little  nourishment 
that  Dora  had  thoughtfully  provided, 
the  sufferer  was  calm  and  able  to  talk. 
By  the  aid  of  the  other  boy,  a  story 
was  told  that  is  the  story  of  thousands, 
but  none  the  less  pathetic  because  so 
often  repeated.  A  drunken  father,  a 
patient  mother,  a  helpless  child,  the 
grind  of  a  relentless  poverty.  At 
length  death  kindly  relieves  the 
mother,  but  leaves  the  helpless  boy 
and  the  brutal  father.  Then  follow 
hunger,  cold,  cruelty  and  life  on  the 
streets,  with  its  scramble  for  bread. 
Then  desertion  by  the  father,  which  is 
the  first  blessing  that  shows  God  has 
not  entirely  forgotten,  then  after  awhile 
sickness,  which  promises  death,  and 
that  is  the  second  sign  that  God  is  in 


142         In  White  and  Black. 

his  world;  and  a  third  token  that  he  is 
counted  with  the  sparrows  still  is  the 
coming1  of  Dora. 

It  was  a  pitiful  story,  told  in  broken, 
I  hesitating-  speech,  with  such  pathos  in  j 
the  big,  fever-bright  eyes  and  such  ! 
pleading  in  the  childish  tones,  that  it 
won  from  Dora  a  shower  of  sympa 
thetic  tears.  When  the  poor  boy 
spoke  of  his  sickness,  he  said:  "I  guess 
I'd  been  dead  ef  it  hadn't  been  fur 
Ned,"  looking  toward  the  boy  who  had 
piloted  Dora.  "He's  give  me  most  all 
he's  arnt  fur  a  week,  an' — "  Here 
Ned  broke  in  with. 

"Oh,  shet  up,  Chris,  'tain't  nothin'. 
You'd  a'done  it  fur  me,"  and  he 
walked  to  the  door  to  hide  his  tears. 
'Tain't  ev'ry  boy  what  'ud  give  a 
good-fur-nothin'  like  me  his  last  crust 
an'  bring  him  water  an' — " 

"What  d'ye  take  me  fur,"  was  Ned's 
impatient  interruption,  "a  rhinoceros ; 
or  a  hotmetot?    Ain't    you    g~ot  no ' 
gumption?     Anybody  'ud  do    it,  'an 
ef  you  don'  stop  that  gab,  I'll  quit  you 
an'   you  can   gx>  to   Ginny."    These 
words  were  spoken  with  emphasis,  and 


A  Waif  and  His  Story.        143 

a  quiver  of  pride  amounting  almost 
to  indignation,  which  was  only  Ned's 
way  of  saying  in  his  untaught  fashion 
that  he  did  not  wish  his  good  deeds 
paraded.  Here  amid  squalor  and 
wretchedness,  amid  ignorance  and 
coarse  speech,  were  the  fine,  beautiful 
things  of  human  nature.  On  one  side 
a  sense  of  gratitude,  deep  and  genuine; 
on  the  other,  a  spirit  that  could  empty 
itself  in  noble  deeds  and  then  resent 
open  praise  with  as  firm  a  self-abne 
gation  as  ever  graced  a  saint.  Rare 
sweet  flowers  sometimes  bloom  in  un 
expected  places. 

Dora  saw,  with  a  woman's  intuition, 
that  the  impress  of  a  good  mother  had 
been  left  upon  the  sick  boy.  All  the 
beauty  of  his  soul  flamed  into  view, 
as  he  spoke  of  that  one  who  had 
watched  and  protected  and  shielded 
and  soothed  him,  till  the  storm  had 
beat  out  her  life.  When  he  elosed 
his  story,  he  looked  at  Dora  with 
grateful  eyes,  and  said,  "I  wish  she 
could  see  you  kneelin'  down  here  by 
me."  In  no  other  way  could  so  much 
gratitude  be  expressed  in  so  few 


144          IH  White  and  Black. 

words;  in  no  other  form  could  so  great 
a  reward  have  been  given  for  this 
ministry.  Who  knows  what  "eyes  do 
behold  us,  out  of  eternity's  stillness," 
and  what  mother  benedictions  fall  on 
the  heads  of  those  who  minister  to 
their  offspring? 

Dora  left  that  cabin  with  a  sense  of 
joy  in  her  heart,  of  a  sort  she  had 
never  before  known.  For  counsel 
she  went  to  Amelia  Bramwell.  These 
two  were  as  twin  spirits.  They  had 
formed  kinship  in  mutual  sorrow  and 
the  friendship  of  earlier  days  was  sub 
limated  and  sanctified  by  suffering. 

Amelia  belongs  to  nature's  true  no 
bility.  She  was  a  member  of  that 
noble  army  of  heroines  who  helped  to 
make  the  annals  of  her  time  and  sec 
tion  illustrious.  The  story  of  their 
heroism  will  not  be  written,  who  out 
of  the  lap  of  luxury  leaped  to  the  side 
of  their  conquered  brothers  of  the 
Southland  and  joined  them  in  that 
new  struggle  in  which  they  were  des 
tined  to  win  such  splendid  triumphs. 
We  of  the  South  have  here  and  there 
erected  a  monument  to  the  memory 


A  Waif  and  His  Story.        145 

of  those  who  went  to  the  front  and 
gfave  their  lives  for  a  cause  to  them 
none  the  less  sacred  that  it  was 
lost;  but  to  her  whose  devotion  and 
faith  sustained  them  in  the  field,  and 
whose  courage  and  patience  were  the 
impregnable  bulwarks  of  the  home 
while  the  war-cloud  hovered  over  the 
land,  and  who,  when  peace  came  to 
her  desolated  country,  refused  to  re 
pine,  but  whose  voice  whispered  hope 
and  cheer  as  she  put  her  arm  about 
the  bronzed  neck  of  the  returned  sol 
dier  and  turned  her  smiling  face  to  the 
future — to  her  we  build  no  monument. 
It  is  well.  Earth  grows  no  material 
that  can  adequately  symbolize  her 
heroism,  and  praise,  the  most  eloquent, 
is  as  sounding  brass.  The  lasting 
achievements  of  a  generation  proclaim 
her  worth,  and  the  triumphant  chorus 
of  progress  is  her  praise,  who  cheer 
fully  exchanged  her  silks  for  home 
spun  and  the  drawing-room  for  the 
kitchen,  but  kept  still  untarnished  the 
crown  of  queenliest  womanhood,  and 
by  her  sway  over  the  hearts  of  her 


In  White  and  Black. 

chivalrous  subjects   led  them  on  to 
wards  the  new  day. 

Amelia  Bramwell  was  brought  up 
in  luxury.  At  the  close  of  the  war  she 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  pov 
erty.  Suddenly  the  new  and  unstud 
ied  problem  of  self-support  confronted 
her  with  its  grim  question,  "What  will 
you  do  with  me?"  She  did  not  hesi 
tate.  Though  the  problem  was  com 
plicated  by  the  needs  of  a  father  old 
and  broken  in  health,  she  did  not 
waver.  By  her  own  exertions  she 
eased  the  steps  of  her  father  to  the 
grave.  Then  there  came  into  her  life 
another  love,  then  a  bitter  loss,  a  dis 
appointment  to  which  we  have  al 
ready  been  introduced.  She  could 
not  live  for  herself,  her  nature  was  too 
fine,  her  faith  too  high  for  that.  For 
bidden  to  love  one,  she  loved  all; 
robbed  of  the  love  of  one,  she  won  the 
gratitude  of  all.  When  the  even  cur 
rent  of  a  life  is  turned  from  the 
smooth  channel  it  has  chosen  for  itself, 
it  is  often  that  it  may  deliver  its  force 
upon  the  wheels  of  progress,  or  make 
the  desert  wastes  to  burst  into  bloom. 


A  Waif  and  His  Story.        147 

It  was  so  with  her  of  whom  we  write. 
The  sweetness  of  her  bruised  life  was 
set  free,  and  the  desolate  were  made 
glad  by  it. 

Thus  the  lives  of  these  two  had 
been  united  in  good  deeds.  They  to 
gether  became  the  friends  of  the 
friendless.  Through  storms  of  ridi 
cule  they  had  together  marched  to 
the  rescue  of  the  waifs  of  the  street. 
They  had  gathered  them  into  a  night 
school  and  were  brightening  their 
dark  lives  with  the  radiance  of  wom 
anly  pity.  They  soon  began  to  dis 
cover  among  these  outcasts  the  stuff 
of  which  men  are  made.  Kicked  and 
cuffed  by  society,  clubbed  and  arrested 
by  the  police,  cursed  and  beaten  by 
drunken  fathers,  driven  on  the  streets 
by  poverty  to  earn  a  penny  where  they 
might,  or  starve,  or  steal,  they  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  grow  up  beau 
tiful  or  wise.  There  was  no  beauty  in 
their  world  until  it  came  to  their  aston-  c. 
ished  vision  through  the  lives  of  these 
two;  no  wisdom  spoke  to  their  hearts 
until  it  spoke  in  the  mellow,  pitying 
tones  of  these  messengers  of  Heaven. 


148        In  White  and  Black. 

Robbed  of  all  the  tender  and  affec 
tionate  influences  of  home,  touched 
only  by  the  hard  and  forbidding  side 
of  society,  lured  to  vice  by  every  voice 
to  which  their  ears  are  familiar,  and 
no  one  to  call  them  back,  or  speak 
kindly  to  them,  it  is  as  likely  they 
would  grow  up  to  virtuous  citizenship 
as  that  pineapples  should  grow  and 
ripen  in  the  regions  of  perpetual  ice. 
But  when  the  voice  of  maidenly  pity 
fell  on  their  ears,  and  the  light  of  a 
pure  Christian  character  threw  its 
splendor  over  their  lives,  something 
awoke  in  them  that  had  not  been 
awake  before.  It  was  as  when  Spring 
with  its  warmth  and  song  breaks 
upon  the  barren  earth;  the  beauty  be 
gan  to  bloom  in  their  lives.  What 
those  two  did  can  be  done  again. 
If  Christian  people  saw  this  world  with 
the  eyes  of  Him  of  Nazareth,  if  they 
touched  it  with  His  helpful  hands,  how 
beautiful  it  would  grow;  but,  alas,  if 
while  we  write  our  names  on  the 
cross,  we  live  in  the  banquet-hall,  if, 
while  we  subscribe  to  the  Sermon  on 


A  Waif  and  His  Story.        149 

the  Mount,  we  live  only  by  the  ledger, 
the  world  will  perish  before  our  eyes 
and  we  with  it.  It  is  our  shame  that 
we  can  chaffer  and  trade  and  dance 
and  drink  with  indifference  while  the 
face  of  the  pitying  Christ  looks  out  of 
His  Heaven — nay,  looks  at  closer 
range,  on  vast  multitudes  who  have 
never  had  a  fair  view  of  His  unveiled 
beauty. 

Ned,  to  whom  we  have  been  intro 
duced,  was  one  of  those  who  had  fal 
len  under  the  influence  of  Dora  and 
Amelia.  It  was  this  that  led  him  to 
call  on  Dora  for  help  when  he  could 
do  no  more  for  his  friend.  The  result 
of  it  all  was  that  Chris,  the  sick  boy, 
was  comfortably  removed  to  the  house 
of  an  old  lady  who  lived  alone,  and 
who,  for  small  pay  or  no  pay,  was  al 
ways  ready  to  do  a  turn  for  her  kind. 
She  was  a  motherly,  gentle  soul  who 
kept  on  her  own  way  and  lived  by  quilt 
ing,  sewing,  nursing  and  the  like,  al 
ways  coming  up  from  her  obscurity 
when  there  was  need  for  her  services. 
She  was  known  far  and  wide  as  "Old 


150         In  White  and  Black. 

Mother  Gray."  She  readily  and  cheer 
fully  took  the  poor  boy  to  her  humble 
home  and  great  mother  heart  to  nurse 
and  care  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  WAIF  HAS  A   SECRET. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It 
was  a  timid  knock,  and  the  door  was 
heavy,  but  the  quick  ear  of  Dora 
caught  the  sound  and  she  answered  it 
herself.  To  her  surprise  it  was  Chris. 
He  was  pale  and  perhaps  his  hesita 
tion  was  caused  by  weakness  partly, 
but  more  by  timidity.  Dora's  cordial 
ity  reassured  him,  for  she  was  de 
lighted  that  he  should  come  to  see  her 
at  home.  He  had  recovered  rapidly. 
Mother  Gray  had  yielded  her  heart  to 
him,  and  with  it  a  very  efficient  hand, 
and  Dora  had  seen  that  nothing  was 
lacking  to  promote  his  recovery.  He 
had  entered  a  new  world,  a  fairy  sort 
of  world — not  that  he  knew  anything 
of  fairies — but  it  was  a  world  so  ut 
terly  different  from  anything  he  knew 
that  he  scarcely  recognized  himself. 
While  Dora  was  hiding  her  blight  and 


152         In  White  and  Black. 

sorrow  underneath  her  service  to  him, 
she  was  also  overlaying  the  blight 
and  waste  of  his  life  with  hope  and 
courage.  What  further  she  was  doing 
when  she  preserved  his  life  she  had 
yet  to  learn,  but  her  heart  was  glad 
with  the  great  gladness  of  a  noble 
deed,  when  she  looked  down  into  the 
face  of  this  boy  with  life  creeping  back 
into  it,  and  a  new  light  dawning  in  the 
sad  eyes  washed  so  bright  with  tears. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  his  ill- 
fitting,  unpolished  shoes  pointing  their 
toes  at  each  other  in  very  riot  of  awk 
wardness,  twirling  his  worn  and  soiled 
cap  on  his  hand.  Every  tone  of  Dora's 
voice  was  like  a  caress,  and  his  courage 
grew  in  her  presence.  He  managed 
at  length  to  get  his  story  told;  brief, 
but  telling  volumes  to  Dora. 

"You  see,  Ned,  he  tol'  me  you 
knowed  Mr.  Kenyon,  whut  wintavrpy. 
The  way  he  found  out  wuz,  he  wuz  a- 
fishin'  under  the  bridge  one  day  after 
the  store  got  burnt  and  he  heerd  Mr. 
Grantley,  whut  runs  the  bank,  an'  the 
nigger  Ben  a-talkin'  about  you  an' 
him  an'  the  fire.  Ned  told  me  sence 


The  Waif  Has  a  Secret.      153 

I  been  sick,  an'  you  wuz  so  good  I 
come  to  tell  you." 

Dora  could  hardly  wait  for  him  to 
stammer  through  his  message.  He 
was  transformed.  He  was  rapidly  be 
coming  a  hero.  She  drew  her  chair 
nearer  and  asked  eagerly.  "Did  you 
know  Mr.  Kenyon?  What  else  can 
you  tell  me  about  him?" 

He  went  on,  quickening  his  speech 
under  the  contagion  of  her  eagerness: 
"Yes,  I  knowed  'im.  He  wuz  good  to 
my  mother.  He  kept  my  pa  from 
hurtin'  her  one  time,  and  got  us  help 
and  medicine,  an'  I  liked  'im.  The 
day  'fore  the  store  got  burnt  I  wuz  at 
the  bank,  cos  I  had  been  an  errand 
for  one  of  the  young  min.  I  heerd 
some  min  talkin'.  They  called  Mr. 
Kenyon's  name  and  I  listened  close 
then.  I  didn't  'zackly  understand, 
but  it  seemed  like  there  wuz  sumpin' 
wrong,  an'  Mr.  Kenyon  wuz  ter  be 
sent  away  fum  the  store.  When  the 
man  cum  out  I  see  it  was  Mr.  Ford 
an'  the  other  was  Mr.  Grantley.  I 
'lowed  to  myse'f  I  would  tell  Mr. 
Kenyon  'bout  it,  but  I  never  seed  'im 


154        In  White  and  Black. 

to  speak  to  'im  no  more.  That  night 
when  I  was  goin'  by  the  house  where 
'e  boards,  I  seed  'im  come  out  an'  go 
down  the  street.  He  was  changed  an' 
had  on  ol'  clo's  an'  all  that,  but  I 
knowed  'im  an'  I  follered  'im,  thinkin' 
I  might  speak  to  'im  ef  'e  stopped. 
But  'e  nuver  stopped  'cep'  whin  'e 
come  to  this  house,  then  'e  only 
stopped  a  minute,  an'  wint  on  out  o' 
town.  That  wus  long  'fore  the  fire, 
an'  'e  ain'  nuver  been  seed  in  Vandalia 
sence  that.  I  thought  you  mought 
like  ter  know." 

Dora  enjoined  secrecy  on  him,  and 
testified  her  gratitude  by  a  caress  and 
a  kiss  on  the  pale  forehead.  He  never 
forgot  that  hour  or  that  kiss.  Mem 
ory  came  back  to  them  in  many  a 
dreary  aftertime  as  to  a  fountain  of 
strength  and  encouragement.  Twi 
light  had  fallen  when  he  went  out. 

He  left  Dora  with  conflicting  emo 
tions  in  her  heart,  emotions  that  grew 
more  turbulent  the  more  she  thought 
on  what  she  had  heard.  It  was  news 
of  a  coveted  sort  from  a  wholly  unex 
pected  source.  It  brought  gladness, 


The  Waif  Has  a  Secret.      155 

that  Lawrance  was  alive  and  that 
there  was  proof  that  he  left  before  the 
fire.  It  brought  sadness,  that  he  was 
wandering-  somewhere,  the  victim  of  a 
plot  she  could  not  yet  comprehend. 
It  made  her  indignant  almost  beyond 
control  that  he  should  be  thus  imposed 
on,  and  what  pained  almost  as  much 
was  the  fact  that  he  had  yielded  and 
had  not  turned  to  her.  With  these 
emotions,  she  sought  Aunt  Lylie. 
When  that  faithful  old  darky  entered 
her  room,  she  found  her  young  mis 
tress  lying  on  the  bed  convulsed  in  a 
fit  of  weeping.  That  did  not  happen 
often,  but  often  enough  to  occasion 
no  alarm  to  Aunt  Lylie,  who  qui 
etly  sat  down  and  stroked  her  hair 
and  hands,  asking  no  questions  and 
offering  no  protests.  The  fit  of  weep 
ing  gave  place  to  a  troubled  sleep,  and 
Aunt  Lylie  watched  through  the  rest 
less  night  of  tossing  and  moans  that 
were  ominous  of  fever.  In  the  morn 
ing  a  doctor  was  called,  and  pro 
nounced  her  case  one  of  serious  ner 
vous  derangement.  He  insisted  on 
absolute  quiet  and,  as  soon  as  possible, 


156         In  U^hite  and  Black. 

change  of  scene.  It  was  the  final  re 
sult  of  a  long"  nervous  strain,  to  which 
was  added  this  new  revelation,  and 
she  had  given  way  under  it-  The 
doctor  charged  it  to  her  good  works, 
and  declared  she  must  give  up  the 
Utopian  idea  that  she  was  called  to 
make  all  bad  boys  into  good  ones, 
not  knowing  it  was  that  very  thing 
that  had  so  long  sustained  her  and  en 
abled  her  to  fight  off  the  inevitable. 

It  was  two  weeks  before  she  could 
sit  up,  even  in  bed,  and  she  had  not 
yet  mentioned  the  subject  next  her 
heart,  even  to  Aunt  Lylie.  Among 
those  who  came  to  inquire,  none  were 
more  solicitous  than  the  boys  who  had 
felt  the  uplifting  touch  of  Dora  and 
Amelia.  There  was  one  in  particular 
who  never  missed  a  day  with  his  anx 
ious  face  and  faltering  voice.  When 
he  had  luck  and  could  afford  it,  he 
now  and  then  brought  a  bunch  of 
flowers.  Once  he  said  timidly,  as  if 
he  were  not  sure  he  ought  to  say  it, 
and  yet  must  say  it,  "Tell  'er  I  ai'nt 
said  nothin'  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter." 

Faithful  Chris,  with  thy  hard  life 


The  Waif  Has  a  Secret.      757 

and  thy  rough  speech,  thine  is  as 
knightly  a  heart  as  ever  beat.  When 
Dora  heard  that  message,  she  knew 
whence  it  came,  and  a  tear  trembled 
in  her  eye. 

The  new  hope  in  her  heart  hastened 
Dora's  recovery,  even  as  its  sudden 
coming  had  caused  her  sickness. 

On  one  Sunday  morning  .she  was 
sitting  in  her  bed,  looking  almost  as 
white  as  the  snowy  linen  that  sur 
rounded  her.  She  was  brighter,  al 
most  cheerful  now.  Aunt  Lylie  had 
done  her  best  to  put  everything  at  its 
tidiest,  and  when  Aunt  Lylie  did  her 
best,  there  was  not  much  margin  left, 
The  curtains  hung  with  the  right 
curve,  the  shutters  let  in  just  enough 
of  the  summer  sun,  which  fell  in  two 
diagonal  lines  of  gold  across  the  car 
pet.  The  canary  had  been  brought  in 
and  was  singing  softly  from  his  posi 
tion  in  the  bay  window.  A  bunch  of 
flowers,  this  time  the  combined  pur 
chase  of  the  pennies  of  "the  boys," 
rested  on  the  marble-topped  center- 
table  in  a  vase  supported  by  a  bevy  of 
Cupids  in  a  patch  of  silver  daisies. 


/5<$*          In  White  and  Black. 

It  had  been  sent  up  by  the  hand  of 
Chris,  who  began  to  be  acknowledged 
as  the  rightful  agent  of  all  their  little 
attentions.  Boys  who  were  counted 
f  among  the  incorrigibles  a  few  weeks  : 
before,  and  whose  names  were  still ' 
fresh  on  the  dishonorable  roll  of  the 
police  court,  had  clamored  for  repre 
sentation  in  this  floral  tribute  to  good 
ness  of  'heart.  They  were  crowning 
their  deliverer,  laying  their  sponta 
neous  offering  at  the  feet  of  this  queen 
of  noble  deeds.  It  was  gratifying  to 
Dora,  but  to  Aunt  Lylie  it  was  more. 
It  made  her  radiantly  happy  to  wit 
ness  the  evidence  of  the  power  her 
young  mistress  exercised  over  the 
hearts  of  these  young  savages.  It 
was  to  her  a  new  proof  of  the  high 
qualities  she  almost  idolized  herself. 
Her  face  was  like  the  morning,  when 
she  said  to  herself,  over  and  over,  "I 
allus  knowed  dat  chile  wus  er  bawn 
queen.'' 

This  Sunday  morning,  Dora  told  ! 
Aunt  Lylie  all  of  what  Chris  had  told 
her,  which  she  remembered  word  for 
word,  though  everything  else  in  con- 


The  Waif  Has  a  Secret.      759 

nection  with  that  evening  was  vague 
and  shadowy.  The  old  negro  listened 
with  breathless  attention,  only  inter 
rupting  now  and  then  to  exclaim, 
"Dat's  whut  I  dun  tole  yer,  honey," 
and,  "Jes'  whut  I  'spected."  In  truth, 
the  discovery  only  confirmed  what 
she  had  suspected  all  along.  The 
next  keenest  pleasure  to  being  able  to 
say,  "I  did  it,"  is  to  be  able  to  say  "I 
told  you  so."  Aunt  Lylie  fell  back  on 
the  latter.  The  only  drawback  to  her 
pleasure  in  having  her  opinions  con 
firmed  was  the  fact  that  another  had 
the  honor  of  finding  out  and  reveal 
ing  the  facts.  She  had  some  of  that 
pride  in  her  achievements  so  common 
to  our  kind,  and  was  just  a  little  irri 
tated  at  being  for  the  once  forestalled. 
Fortunately,  she  had  none  of  that 
meanness  that  made  her  either  dis 
credit  another's  service  or  cherish 
jealousy  of  a  rival. 

What  was  to  be  done?  That  was 
the  question  of  all  questions  now.  If 
Lawrance  could  be  found,  if  things 
could  be  explained,  all  might  yet  be 
well.  But  how?  Where  was  he? 


160        In  White  and  Black. 

Aunt  Lylie  was  at  her  wits'  end,  but 
her  faith  did  not  forsake  her.  "I  dun 
tole  yer  we  gwine  fin'  'im,  an'  I  ain't 
gib  in.  We  gittin'  more  light.  De 
Lawd's  leadin'  us  thoo'  de  wilderness, 
an'  he  gwine  keep  on  leadin'  us,  twell 
we  reach  de  promus  land.  Sumpin 
in  here"  (laying  her  hand  on  her 
breast)  "keep  tellin'  me  I  gwine  see 
yer  bofe  happy  wid  dese  eyes,  den  I 
gwine  shet  'um  and  go  long  whar  Ole 
Mistiss  is." 

There  was  something  so  simple  and 
positive  in  Aunt  Lylie's  faith  that  it 
had  a  soothing  effect  on  Dora.  To 
day  she  entered  into  it  more  than 
usual,  and  was  strengthened. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
"LET  THE  STRICKEN  DEER  GO  WEEP." 

When  Lawrance  parted  from  Dora 
under  the  beech  on  the  night  of  the 
lawn  party,  he  took  his  way  across  the 
grove,  scarcely  knowing  whither  he 
went.  The  moon  was  climbing  the 
eastern  heavens  and  pouring  her  silver 
light  on  the  path  as  he  walked.  The 
grove  was  almost  a  forest  of  maples 
and  box-elders  and  beeches.  Moon 
light  in  May,  a  lover  among  the  trees, 
even  alone,  is  not  an  inharmonious 
combination.  Since  Dora  knew  his 
mind  all  the  rest  of  mankind  was  a 
contemptible  audience,  and  the  heart 
of  nature  alone  a  fit  depository  for  the 
delicious  secret  of  his  love.  Never  be 
fore  had  he  realized  such  an  affinity 
between  the  soul  and  its  surroundings; 
never  had  nature  shown  herself  so 
glorious.  He  felt  a  strange  uplift  of 
soul.  The  future  lay  luminous  before 


1 62         In  White  and  Black. 

his  eyes.  Dreams  of  high  things  be 
gan  to  awake  the  latent  ambition  of 
his  heart.  There  are  powers  in  all  men 
that  some  voice  will  awaken,  and 
when  that  voice  speaks  they  do  their 
best.  Woe  to  him  who  does  not  re 
spond  with  his  might  when  that  which 
is  best  in  him  springs  into  being. 
There  was  only  one  voice  that  could 
arouse  the  whole  noblest  manhood 
that  in  Lawrance  Kenyon  had  hither 
to  lain  dormant,  and  that  was  the 
voice  of  love.  Having  heard  that 
voice  he  was  as  one  who  wakes  from 
a  dream.  What  flashes  are  these 
that  unveil  the  angel  within  us,  and 
redeem  us,  if  only  for  a  moment,  from 
the  mean  and  sordid  domination  of 
the  flesh!  Alas,  that  they  can  not 
endure! 

The  brief  space  spent  with  Dora  on 
that  night  had  been  the  birth-hour  of 
Lawrance's  nobler  self.  He  had  gone 
to  the  party  with  no  definite  intention 
except  to  see  Dora,  to  look  upon  her 
beauty,  to  be  near  her,  as  moths  get 
near  a  candle,  perhaps  to  surfer  like 
them.  When  he  met  her  under  the 


"Let  the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weep"  163 

beech,  his  secret  would  out.  He  spoke 
by  instinct,  as  one  cries  out  when 
struck.  His  words  were  hardly  more 
than  heart-throbs.  By  just  so  much 
they  were  eloquent  and  also  few. 
Trust  a  woman  to  recognize  the  depths 
from  which  language  comes.  It  is  this 
depth  which  gives  more  meaning  to 
broken  phrases  than  was  ever  packed 
into  the  fine  sentences  of  the  rhetori 
cian.  Dora  had  said  almost  nothing, 
but  she  had  listened  with  that  unmis 
takable  sympathy  that  can  not  be 
simulated,  and  that  says  plainly,  "I 
am  glad  you  spoke  so."  The  spoken 
word  is  not  the  highest  form  of  ex 
pression.  There  is  a  language  which 
words  can  not  compass,  beside  which 
halting  syllables  are  contemptible. 
Lawrance  had  heard  that  unspoken 
language  and  was  content. 

He  had  not  intended  leaving  the 
party  so  abruptly,  but  had  withdrawn 
to  enjoy  his  exquisite  secret  alone. 
Almost  unconscious  of  any  purpose, 
he  held  on  his  way  into  the  street.  He 
soon  found  himself  on  the  bridge, 
leaning  on  the  railing,  looking  down 


164        In  White  and  Black. 

at  the  reflection  of  the  stars  in  the  clear 
water,  listening  to  its  low  murmur,  and 
meditating  on  the  excess  of  happiness 
that  seemed  within  his  grasp.  At  that 
moment,  Roswell  was  making  his 
declaration  to  Dora,  and  she  was 
speaking  those  brave  words,  and  keep 
ing  the  thought  of  La wrance  in  sacred 
contrast  to  the  man  before  her. 

The  next  day  found  Lawrance  full 
of  the  one  thought,  and  with  a  less 
steady  hope  than  the  night  before. 
The  day  seemed  long  and  tedious  till 
the  hour  arrived  when  he  was  to  see 
Dora. 

He  was  standing  at  his  desk  when 
a  letter  was  put  into  his  hands.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon.  As  the 
reader  suspects,  he  had  already  re 
ceived  his  discharge,  and  was  rankling 
under  the  sting  of  injustice  and  trying 
to  conjure  up  some  possible  excuse 
for  it,  for  no  satisfactory  reason  had 
been  given  him.  But  this  discharge 
was  none  the  less  positive  and  final. 
He  was  in  no  mood  for  this  second 
blow  about  to  fall  with  cruel  force. 
The  letter  he  held  in  his  hand  was  the 


"Let the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weefi."  165 

curt  refusal  of  Dora  to  receive  a  visit 
from  Roswell  Grantley.  Since  the 
note  contained  no  name,  it  lent  itself 
readily  to  fraud.  Roswell  had  mailed 
it  to  Lawrance.  One  could  wish  as  he 
holds  it  in  his  hands  that  the  dumb 
lines  could  speak  and  tell  their  secret, 
but  alas,  that  ink  should  lend  itself  as 
readily  to  falsehood  as  to  truth.  He 
broke  the  seal,  and  the  first  sight  of  its 
contents  sent  the  blood  from  his 
cheeks  and  staggered  him  as  a  phys 
ical  blow  would  have  done.  His 
bosom  heaved  like  the  bosom  of  one 
in  his  death-throes.  With  his  hands 
he  hid  his  eyes  from  those  terrible 
lines  as  one  might  shut  out  the  sight 
of  his  own  grave  if  it  yawned  before 
him.  Then,  steadying  himself,  he 
read  it  through  deliberately,  every 
cruel  word  piercing  his  heart  like  a 
dagger.  Then,  mechanically  closing 
his  ledger,  he  left  the  store  and  went 
to  his  room. 

In  such  moments  one  wants  to  meet 
the  gaze  of  no  human  eye.  He  must 
be  alone,  he  must  think,  he  must  some 
how  choke  down  this  agony.  A  great 


1 66         In  White  and  Black. 

wall  of  darkness  rose  before  him.  He 
could  see  no  way  through  it.  He 
entered  his  room,  laid  his  arms  across 
each  other  on  the  table,  and  dropped 
his  head  on  them  and  grappled  with 
despair.  There  as  the  twilight  gath 
ered  about  him,  as  if  in  pity  to  shroud 
him  with  its  shadows,  was  fought  one 
of  those  Titanic  struggles  waged  on 
the  lone  and  voiceless  stretches  of  the 
human  soul,  in  which  destinies  are 
made  or  marred.  For  this  man  there 
seemed  nothing  for  which  to  fight. 
All  for  which  he  had  learned  to  hope 
or  live  had  gone  from  him.  He  saw 
no  point  at  which  to  begin.  Dora's 
note  was  final,  cruelly  final.  The  dis 
charge  he  now  understood.  It  was 
part  of  the  plan  to  prevent  his  mar 
riage  with  Dora,  and  the  very  dregs 
of  the  bitter  cup  were  put  in  by  her 
own  hand.  It  was  growing  dark 
when,  he  arose,  and  one  look  at  his 
face  would  have  told  he  had  lost 
the  battle.  He  was  in  that  frame 
when  men  do  desperate  things.  The 
moral  forces  were  in  abeyance.  Had 
he  known,  had  the  phantoms  taken 


"Let  the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weep"  167 

human  shape,  he  would  have  shown 
himself  cruel  and  men  would  have 
called  his  cruelty  courage.  But  who 
could  stand  against  fate,  against  the 
universe  of  darkness? 

He  proceeded  to  disguise  himself 
by  means  of  his  razor  and  some  old 
clothes  he  had  at  hand.  The  disguise 
completed  to  his  satisfaction,  he  sat 
down  again.  He  must  write  Dora  a 
farewell  letter.  His  heart  was  stabbed 
to  the  very  core.  His  pride  was 
wounded  by  the  curt  tone  of  her  note. 
He  could  not  understand  it.  If  she 
must  reject  him,  what  need  was  there 
she  should  do  it  cruelly?  It  was  a 
contradiction  of  all  he  had  known  or 
dreamed  of  Dora's  character.  He 
read  and  re-read  the  note.  There  it 
was,  in  cold,  cruel  characters  before 
him,  and  though  his  soul  bled  at  the 
smiting  of  every  word,  he  could  not 
change  it,  nor  find  in  it  that  which 
was  not  there.  He  wrote.  Page  after 
page  was  flung  rapidly  from  his  trem 
bling  hand.  His  very  soul  seemed  to 
run  out  in  molten  thought  from  his 
pen.  This  gave  him  relief.  What 


1 68          In  White  and  Black. 

did  he  write?  No  matter.  He  read 
it,  then  tore  it,  and  thrust  it  into 
the  blazing  fire,  and  the  message 
that  would  have  kindled  a  flame 
of  light  in  the  heart  of  Dora  shriv 
eled  and  hissed  and  fell  into  ashes. 
As  Lawrance  watched  it,  he  seemed 
to  see  a  symbol  of  his  hopes,  and 
the  fire  of  his  disappointment  turn 
ing  them  to  ashes.  After  the  paper 
had  ceased  to  burn,  and  the  white 
ashes  broke  and  fell  or  flew  away,  be 
hold,  one  word  stood  out  clear  and 
vivid  still,  as  if  refusing  to  yield  to  the 
destroyer,  and  he  beheld  in  the  glow 
ing  embers,  as  defiant  as  the  passion 
that  survived  the  wreck  in  his  heart, 
the  word  "Love." 

He  went  out,  and  went  worldward. 
He  paused  once,  and  took  one  long 
look  at  the  beech  under  which  his 
first  and  only  eloquent  words  had 
been  spoken,  then  took  his  weary  way 
southward.  How  rapidly  this  all  had 
come  to  pass!  How  much  the  human 
heart  can  enjoy  or  endure  in  a  short 
time.  The  soul  has  no  calendar;  heart 
history  is  not  measured  by  clocks.  It 


"Let  the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weefi"  169 

seemed  to  Lawrance  an  age  since  this 
tragedy  began.  When  he  turned 
away  from  that  gate,  and  bent  his 
steps  towards  the  great  world,  the 
most  careless  observer,  had  he  met 
him,  might  have  said  ever  after,  "Once 
I  saw  the  face  of  despair." 

His  purpose,  if  he  could  be  said  to 
have  one,  was  to  quit  Vandalia  for 
ever,  to  lose  himself  and  his  identity, 
and  sever  his  past  as  far  as  might  be 
from  his  future.  As  to  the  practical 
question  of  what  use  there  was  in  such 
a  course,  he  was  not  in  a  mood  for 
asking  or  answering  questions  of  any 
sort.  For  him  there  was  no  longer 
any  good  to  be  sought  after,  only  evil 
to  be  fled  from.  Perhaps  if  his  mind 
could  have  been  sounded  there  would 
have  been  found  a  vague  idea  that  he 
could  somehow  get  away  from  his 
past  by  this  course  he  had  taken.  He 
had  not  reflected  on  the  solemn  fact 
that  there  is  no  road  leading  away 
from  self,  and  that  memory  defies  all 
distance.  He  did  not  know  where  he 
should  go,  only  away,  anywhere,  so  it 
was  far.  He  was  as  a  wounded  deer 


1 70         In  White  and  Black. 

trying  to  flee  from  the  pain  and  carry 
ing  the  pain  always  with  it.  He 
thought  of  all  the  ties  that  bound  him 
to  the  past,  except  one,  and  there  was 
not  a  spark  of  regret.  When  he 
thought  of  Dora  the  only  pang  of 
which  he  was  capable  shot  through 
his  heart.  All  friendships,  all  attach 
ments,  all  passions,  were  swallowed 
up  in  his  love  for  the  fair,  sweet  girl 
he  had  so  lately  felt  was  his  own. 

He  tried  to  find  consolation  for 
himself  in  anger.  He  summoned  his 
pride,  his  resentment,  to  stand  be 
tween  him  and  his  pain,  but  one  swift 
vision  of  the  radiant  face  of  Dora, 
and  his  defenses  gave  way  before  his 
pitiless  grief. 

Then  came  the  thought  of  God,  and 
his  soul  rose  up  in  bitter  rebellion. 
He  recalled  having  struck  a  boy  once, 
because  he  held  a  poor  fly  struggling 
on  the  point  of  a  pin  for  his  amuse 
ment.  Was  it  possible  that  the  Great 
God  would  impale  one  of  His  creat 
ures  on  a  cruel  disappointment  and 
watch  him  writhe  in  his  agony?  He 
had  not  been  wicked  nor  cruel.  He 


"Let the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weep!'  1 7  / 

had  many  a  time  released  a  poor 
struggling  moth  from  the  chimney  of 
his  lamp.  He  would  always  step 
over  a  worm  in  his  path  rather  than 
crush  it.  He  had  often  readjusted 
the  nest  of  the  field-mice  when  dis 
turbed  by  his  plow.  He  had  broken 
the  sassafras-bushes  in  the  fence- 
corner  to  cover  the  hatching  brood  of 
a  mother  quail  when  the  reapers  had 
wrecked  her  golden  roof.  He  would 
not  inflict  on  the  vilest  wretch,  though 
he  were  his  bitterest  enemy,  the  pain 
he  was  now  enduring.  These  were 
the  thoughts  that  filled  his  mind  as  he 
trudged  along  through  the  night.  For 
the  first  time  the  horror  of  doubt  laid 
its  chill  touch  on  his  spirit. 

Thus  on  through  the  night,  the  som 
bre  night,  the  curtain  of  whose  dark 
ness  hides  so  much  sin;  the  silent, 
lonely  night,  whose  starry  canopy 
covers  so  much  of  unwritten  tragedy, 
this  wanderer  tramped  alone  with  his 
pain.  He  did  not  keep  to  the  high 
way,  but  tramped  across  fields  and 
woods,  always  keeping  his  course 
southward. 


1 12         In  White  and  Black. 

Daylight  found  him  in  a  dense 
wood,  seated  on  a  log,  weary  with  his 
night's  long  tramp.  He  had  not  slept 
for  two  nights.  The  winds  had  piled 
the  leaves  into  a  friendly  heap  on  the 
north  side  of  the  log  on  which  he  sat. 
He  threw  himself  upon  this  bed  of 
nature's  making,  smiling  as  he  thought 
of  occupying  so  delightful  a  resting- 
place  without  even  so  much  as  taking 
off  his  boots  or  saying,  "by  your 
leave."  His  sleep  was  long  and  deep. 
The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when 
he  awoke.  The  woods  were  full  of 
melody.  The  breath  of  grape  and 
alder  blooms  filled  the  air.  The  scene 
was  one  of  peace.  A  mischievous 
squirrel  eyed  him  suspiciously,  from 
the  trunk  of  a  large  chestnut-tree 
where  he  hung,  head  downwards,  bark 
ing  with  an  energy  that  communi 
cated  itself  by  rhythmic  movements 
to  the  proud  tail  that  lay  gracefully 
along  his  back.  Drumming  on  a 
dead  stump  near  by,  was  a  wood 
pecker,  whose  fiery  head  flashed  to 
and  fro  with  amazing  rapidity  as  he 


"Let  the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weep 

industriously  drilled  his  way  into  the 
yielding  wood.  Far  away,  the  liquid 
notes  of  a  brown  thrush  came,  mellow, 
clear,  far-floating,  and  with  that  oily 
softness  that  belongs  to  no  other 
earthly  sound.  As  Lawrance  list 
ened,  the  notes  seemed  to  come  from 
farther  and  farther,  as  if  out  of  the 
bosom  of  a  limitless  forest,  and  the 
singer  seemed  to  gather  up  and  ex 
press  the  message  of  all  the  silent 
waste  of  woods,  as  if  every  leaf  and 
flower  and  gurgling  stream  spoke 
through  one  throat,  and  every  bird 
had  whispered  its  loves  and  griefs 
into  that  one  song.  Rousing  himself 
from  his  revery,  Lawrance  determined 
to  follow  the  song  and  find  its  author, 
and  struck  boldly  out  for  a  long  walk. 
He  had  not  gone  twenty  paces,  when 
the  song  suddenly  broke  off,  and  at  the 
next  step,  the  startled  musician  flut 
tered  out  from  the  thick  foliage,  al 
most  in  reach  of  his  arm.  While 
laughing  at  himself  for  allowing  this 
wizard  of  the  forest  to  play  such  a 
prank  with  his  sense  of  distance,  he 


174        In  White  and  Black. 

heard  another  sound  and,  looking 
down,  saw  at  his  feet  a  sparkling; 
spring-,  breaking-  forth  from  the  rocks 
and  laug-hing-  itself  into  mimic  cata- 
racts  and  rapids,  as  it  began  its  long; , 
journey  to  the  sea.  Then  it  dawned  { 
on  him  that  he  was  thirsty,  very 
thirsty,  and  throwing  himself  on  his 
face,  he  drank  from  Nature's  full 
tankard.  When  he  arose  he  be 
thought  himself  he  was  hungry,  and 
taking  from  his  pocket  some  cheese 
and  crackers  which  he  had  provided, 
ate  and  was  refreshed,  and  there  came 
to  him  a  temporary  sense  of  peace. 
He  who  fled  from  the  companionship 
of  men  found  diversion  in  the  fellow 
ship  of  the  happy  creatures  of  the 
woods. 

He  now  began  to  ask  himself  what 
he  should  do.    The  world  is  wide.    One 
must  choose  on  what  part  of  its  broad 
surface  he  will  dwell.    He  soon  made 
up  his  mind  to  push  on  to  the  South,  : 
maintaining  his  disguise.    There  was  ' 
some   diversion   in    the    thought    of 
tramping,  and  he  determined  to  ad- 


"Let the  Stricken  Deer  Go  Weep!'  775 

here  to  that  mode  of  travel  for  the 
present.  Having  settled  this  point, 
he  struck  off  at  a  gait  that  by  the  code 
of  trampdom  was  altogether  non- 
professional. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

A   PEEP    AT   TRAMPDOM. 

The  modern  tramp  is  a  curious  prod 
uct.  The  further  civilization  pro 
gresses,  the  faster  his  tribe  multiplies, 
and  the  more  distinct  his  kind  be 
comes.  He  is  a  sort  of  cast-off  chip 
from  the  great  workshop  of  progress. 
The  higher  the  civilization,  the  fiercer 
the  competition,  and  the  more  careful 
the  selection.  It  requires  an  increas 
ing  number  of  good  qualities  to  meet 
the  demands  of  modern  times,  and  to 
maintain  a  place  in  its  ranks.  In  a 
savage  state,  animal  strength  wins 
the  crown.  Reach  of  spear  and  blow 
of  bludgeon  make  one  chief.  Later 
the  result  hinges  on  the  mind,  when 
keenness  of  intellect  wins  over  strength 
of  muscle.  Then  comes  the  stage 
where  character  is  dominant,  and  the 
noble  attributes  of  the  moral  nature 
are  the  kingly  qualities.  Then  sue- 
in 


A  Peep  at  Trampdom.        777 

cess  is  dependent  not  alone  on  what 
one  can  do  or  on  what  one  knows, 
but  also  on  what  he  is.  This  stage, 
in  perfection,  is  the  "Kingdom  of 
Heaven,"  in  which  he  that  is  least 
is  greater  by  the  new  standard  than 
are  they  that  were  greatest  by  the 
old.  Into  it  we  have  not  fully  en 
tered,  but  are  entering,  and  the  va 
grant  is  here.  He  is  not  so  much  the 
product  as  the  refuse  of  this  stage. 
He  is  the  waste  timber  thrown  aside 
for  lack  of  fitness.  He  has  lost  step 
with  the  procession,  either  for  lack  of 
will  or  lack  of  conscience;  maybe,  now 
and  then,  for  lack  of  pride.  He  is 
not  so  much  a  criminal  as  a  failure. 
He  is  the  barbarian  of  civilized  life. 
He  follows  the  line  of  least  resistance, 
choosing  to  drift  rather  than  row. 

His  existence  is  not  only  curious, 
but  pathetic.  He  lives  in  a  distinct 
world,  the  world  of  trampdom.  His 
way  lies  apart  from  the  busy,  bustling 
world  of  thrift  and  enterprise,  in  a 
world  without  homes,  without  loves, 
without  marriage,  without  history, 
without  hope.  Without  homes,  for 


1 7 8         In  White  and  Black. 

the  tramp's  home  is  everywhere  and 
nowhere;  without  laws,  for  he  acknowl 
edges  no  king,  pays  no  taxes,  votes 
only  by  fraud,  and  is  patriotic — for 
bread;  it  is  a  world  without  marriage, 
for  women  do  not  tramp,  and  the  very 
smile  and  prattle  of  childhood  would 
render  the  life  impossible;  without 
history,  for  it  achieves  nothing,  leaves 
no  monuments  along  its  journey,  the 
only  sign  of  its  passing  being  a  track 
on  the  highway,  some  charred  frag 
ments  in  the  fence-corners,  and  now 
and  then  a  chalk-mark  on  a  wall; 
without  hope,  for  always  to-morrow 
must  be  as  to-day,  only  the  novelty  of 
change  without  progress.  There  are 
no  fortunes  to  improve,  no  plans  to 
pursue,  no  budding  purposes  to  burst 
into  bloom. 

The  theory  of  the  tramp  is  that  the 
world  owes  him  a  living.  It  does  not 
enter  into  his  calculations  that  he 
owes  the  world  as  much  as  the  world 
owes  him;  that  on  his  theory,  the 
whole  business  would  go  bankrupt  for 
lack  of  somebody  to  pay.  It  is  not 
part  of  his  reckoning  that  one  must 


A  Peep  at  Tramfidom. 

eat  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  own 
brow,  or  by  the  sweat  of  some  other 
man's  brow — by  toil  or  robbery.  Was 
not  the  quaint  old  Russian  right  when 
he  laid  it  down  as  Heaven's  first  law 
that  every  man  should  be  a  producer? 
Not  necessarily  of  corn  or  cabbage  or 
shoes,  but  of  a  poem  or  a  hoe-handle, 
a  steam-engine  or  a  cotton-bale,  a 
constitution  or  a  corn-cake.  Failing 
in  this,  he  is  cast  overboard  as  a  cum 
bersome  weight,  eliminated  by  society. 
He  is  incompetent.  Whether  he 
wears  jeans  or  broadcloth  is  all  one. 
Whether  voluntarily  or  involuntarily 
incompetent  is  another  matter.  For 
the  latter,  society  has  her  asylums  and 
hospitals;  for  the  former — the  high 
way. 

The  tramp  is  something  of  an  artist. 
It  is  a  marvel  of  the  mind  that  it  will  not 
rest;  thought  will  play  about  every 
thing  it  touches.  A  tramp  learns  how 
to  ply  his  calling.  These  knights  of 
the  highway  have  a  standard  of  artis 
tic  excellence  among  their  cult.  A 
tramp  has  been  known  to  win  the  ad 
miration  of  his  fellows  because  he  se- 


iSo        In  White  and  Black. 

cured  a  smoking  breakfast  and  a  chap 
ter  of  good  advice,  where  half  a  dozen 
others  had  been  compelled  to  beat  an 
ignominious  retreat. 

Lawrance  had  not  adopted  the 
tramp  life,  except  for  concealment. 
He  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
suicide  as  of  being  a  vagrant,  and  his 
nature  was  too  healthy  for  either.  He 
had  some  money.  He  always  paid 
where  it  was  allowed,  and  his  pride 
made  it  hard  to  refuse  his  cash.  He 
saw  the  good  and  bad  side  of  human 
character.  He  met  kindness  in  unex 
pected  quarters,  and  heartlessness 
where  he  expected  generosity.  Lilies 
often  grow  in  marshes,  ragweeds  in 
flower-gardens. 

He  soon  began  to  realize  how  large 
a  part  of  the  beautiful  and  good  in  the 
world  strikes  its  roots  in  sorrow.  He 
began  to  see  how  the  plowshare  of  dis 
appointment  turns  the  noble  soil  of  the 
human  heart  and  smothers  the  growth 
of  weeds.  He  found  himself  being 
drawn  into  fellowship  with  those  who 
suffer.  He  began  to  feel  a  deepening 
sense  of  brotherhood  towards  all  the 


A  Peep  at  Tramfidom.        181 

unfortunate.  He  was  no  longer  a 
being  apart  whose  own  sufferings  were 
everything,  but  he  was  a  fraction  of 
the  broad  brotherhood  "that  groan- 
eth  and  travaileth  in  pain."  This  was 
a  sign  of  a  healthy  reaction.  He  be 
gan  to  think,  and  thinking  is  a  whole 
some  process.  His  interest  in  life  be 
gan  to  come  back  to  him.  Did  his 
lost  faith  return?  No,  he  was  not  con 
scious  of  any  religious  emotion.  But 
who  shall  say  where  the  germ  of  faith 
begins  to  awake?  Who  will  tell  us 
by  what  far-off  thoughts  the  Mighty 
One  begins  his  approach  to  the  heart, 
and  by  what  circuits  he  marches  his 
silent  cordons?  Rather,  what  is  there 
in  thought  or  feeling  that  may  not  be 
a  gateway  for  the  Spirit? 

Lawrance  began  to  feel  again  some 
thing  of  the  strange  sense  of  power 
that  dawned  on  him  on  that  moonlit, 
love-lit  first  of  May.  That  sudden 
birth  of  his  better  self  was  no  tempo 
rary  emotion.  There  are  heights  from 
which  we  never  descend  except  it  be 
to  utter  ruin.  As  the  sun's  ray  paints 
on  the  sensitized  glass  the  image  that 


182         In  White  and  Black. 

may  be  overlaid  or  remain  long1  unde 
veloped,  so  on  the  sensitive  spirit  a 
swift  vision  smites  in  some  sudden 
light,  and  the  years  may  overlay  the 
impress  with  their  rubbish,  but  it  will 
come  forth  in  its  beauty  in  other  days. 
The  dreams  of  youth  may  slumber 
long,  and  the  dead  leaves  of  struggle 
and  disappointment  may  hide  them 
from  view,  but  if  the  soul  be  true,  they 
will  come  to  life  in  the  years  when  the 
will  is  strong  to  make  them  splendidly 
real.  That  process  of  self-revelation, 
begun  in  the  high  light  of  a  sudden 
joy,  was  being  perfected  in  the  fires  of 
trial.  Lawrance  had  found  himself 
on  that  fateful  night,  and  while  now 
he  lacked  the  thrill  of  hope  that  then 
gave  emphasis  to  the  discovery,  he 
began  to  realize  it  was  no  tantalizing1 
vision,  but  the  discovery  of  a  perma 
nent  power. 

He  was  lying  by  the  roadside,  listen 
ing  to  the  many-voiced  psalm  of 
nature.  He  thought  of  Dora  with  pain 
that  knew  no  abatement;  of  his  own 
weak  and  unmanly  action  with  shame 
and  humiliation;  of  his  brief  experi- 


A  Peep  at  Trampdom.        183 

ence  in  this  new  life  of  a  tramp  with 
astonishment  at  himself  and  at  the 
life;  he  thought  of  his  mother,  and  a 
long,  sweet  train  of  memories  rushed 
upon  him,  while  he  wondered  what  she 
would  sayof  him  now ;  he  thought  of  his 
future  and  began  to  ask  himself  what 
it  should  be.  This  was  the  first  time 
he  had  thought  seriously  of  the  future 
since  the  crushing  blow  fell.  Now 
that  fairyland  of  hope  loomed  up  be 
fore  him  and  the  strength  of  his  youth 
began  to  stir  within  him.  Slowly  the 
man  in  him  arose  and  climbed  the 
rubbish  heap  of  weakness  and  disap 
pointment  under  which  it  had  been 
buried,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sky, 
breathed  the  healthful  atmosphere, 
felt  once  more  the  touch  of  an  invisi 
ble  hand,  then  it  was  that  the  poten 
tial  "7wz7/"was  uttered,  and  he  faced 
toward  victory. 

He  sat  up,  looked  about  him  with  a 
new  light  in  his  eye,  then,  feeling  the 
impulse  of  movement,  rose  to  his  feet 
and  hurried  onwards.  Had  he  for 
gotten,  was  his  heart  weaned  from 
Dora?  No,  no.  Dora,  the  dead  joy, 


184         In  White  and  Black. 

the  tragedy  of  his  life,  was  there 
buried  in  his  heart,  but  nature  was 
beginning-  to  heal  and  hide  the  scar. 
Is  it  nature?  Is  that  the  name  of 
that  mysterious  power  that  guides 
our  thoughts  through  the  mazes  of 
stumbling  indecision  till  we  stand  in 
the  highway  of  purpose?  Lawrance 
put  that  thought  from  him.  He  felt 
a  desire  for  companionship.  This  was 
new  to  him.  Since  his  exile,  he  had 
preferred  to  be  alone;  now  he  felt  that 
he  should  like  to  commune  with  his 
kind.  It  was  the  reviving  sense  of 
the  kinship  that  binds  the  race  to 
gether.  A  mile  from  this  point  he 
passed  a  farm-house.  As  he  passed, 
a  man  came  out  at  the  gate.  A 
single  glance  told  Lawrance  he  was  a 
tramp.  An  hour  before  he  would 
have  shunned  him,  but  now  he  was 
glad  to  see  him.  He  could  not  share 
the  spirit  of  comradeship  with  which 
the  man  greeted  him,  for  there  was 
still  that  barrier  that  consciously  sep 
arates  the  man  of  purpose  and  pride 
from  those  who  have  lost  both.  It 


A  Peep  at  Trampdom.        185 

was  the  true  caste  sign,  the  sign  of  a 
moral  distinction.  There  can  be  per 
fect  congeniality  between  the  ignorant 
and  the  learned,  between  the  rich  and 
the  poor,  between  the  high-born  and 
the  low-born,  for  the  lines  of  separa-. 
tion  here  are  more  or  less  superficial, 
and  altogether  artificial,  but  the  dis 
tinction  that  exists  in  character  is  real, 
God-implanted.  But  there  are  no 
barriers  that  shut  out  sympathy  and 
helpfulness.  Lawrance  entered  into 
fellowship  with  this  man  on  that  score, 
and  soon  gathered  his  history  as  they 
journeyed  together,  so  like  in  outward 
seeming,  so  different  in  reality.  It  in 
terested  him.  He  found  more  in  com 
mon  between  himself  and  this  ruined 
man  than  he  expected.  There  were 
many  traces  of  what  might  have  been 
a  noble  nature.  Lawrance  was  as  one 
who  walks  on  the  silent  streets  of  an 
exhumed  city.  It  is  ruined,  dead,  but 
on  every  hand  the  eye  sees  the  re 
mains  of  what  was  once  human  life, 
with  all  its  fulness  and  beauty.  So  in 
this  man,  who  had  surrendered  hope, 


186         In  White  and  Black. 

and  allowed  his  manhood  to  perish, 
there  were  the  lingering  remains  of 
what  might  have  been  noble. 

When  night  came,  and  hunger  and 
weariness  with  it,  these  two  pedes 
trians  were  fortunate  enough  to  secure 
a  supper,  and  later  a  bed  in  the  sweet- 
smelling  clover  hay  that  lay  heaped 
in  the  open  field.  Lawrance  lay  look 
ing  at  the  stars  and  communing  with 
the  vast  silence  till  he  almost  enjoyed 
peace  once  more.  Under  that  peace 
ful  blue,  decorated  with  those  lamps 
of  the  night,  it  seemed  to  him  any 
man  ought  to  be  happy.  The  very 
cattle  lay  asleep  about  him,  and  the 
pungent  scent  of  the  clover  was  in  his 
nostrils.  Now  and  then  the  voice  of 
a  night-bird  broke  the  stillness,  and 
the  bats  with  restless  wings  circled 
above  him.  These  all  seemed  to  him 
syllables  in  a  great  hymn  of  praise 
that  even  night  could  not  altogether 
silence.  It  was  as  if  night,  like  a 
giant  bird,  had  spread  her  wings  and 
shut  in  her  brood  of  living  things 
and  hushed  their  voices  into  silence — 
only  one  here  and  there  broke  away 


A  Peep  at  Trampdom.        187 

in  very  excess  of  gladness.  The 
stream  that  a  hundred  feet  away  rip 
pled  its  sheen  of  silver,  and  crooned 
its  song  between  undulant  stretches 
of  clover,  spoke  the  message  of  peace 
and  courage  it  had  once  spoken  to 
those  who  lay  in  the  family  grave 
yard  not  far  away,  where  the  modest, 
white  tombstones  spoke  truth  in  the 
starlight,  whatever  they  might  speak 
in  the  day,  for  they  were  saying,  "It 
must  all  end  here." 

At  last  he  slept,  and  sleep  conquered 
the  bitterness  of  his  heart  and  made 
him  the  equal  of  a  prince  and  his 
cloyer-rick  a  couch  of  down.  He 
woke  to  the  rattle  of  a  bell,  a  cow-bell, 
whose  wearer  had  felt  the  dawn  in  her 
blood  and  had  arisen  to  meet  the  on 
coming  hosts  of  the  busy  day.  The 
east  began  to  blush,  and  the  bare 
edge  of  the  sapphire  crown  of  morn 
ing  showed  above  the  hills. 

Lawrance  rose,  went  to  the  branch 
and  bathed  his  face  and  drank  of  the 
limpid  water.  He  returned  to  meet 
the  stern  reproof  of  his  fellow  traveler, 
who  solemnly  declared  that  a  morn- 


188        In  W Thite  and  Black. 

ing  bath  brought  bad  luck  all  day, 
and  that  they  might  as  well  prepare 
to  go  hungry  that  day.  They  began 
their  journey  at  once,  for  in  this  tramp 
life  it  is  the  rolling  stone  that  gathers 
moss.  They  must  at  least  find  some 
thing  to  eat,  and  not  where  they  found 
supper,  for  a  tramp's  welcome  is  easily 
worn  out.  It  was  not  long  till  they 
spied  a  farm-house  showing  white 
through  the  trees  by  which  it  was 
surrounded,  and  wearing,  as  they 
neared  it,  that  indescribable  air  of 
welcome  that  is  characterized  by  a 
smiling  exterior,  where  the  spirit  of 
neighborliness  has  come  outdoors 
and  robed  itself  in  a  beauty  for  any 
eye  that  is  hungry  for  it.  The  smoke 
was  curling  from  the  chimney  of  the 
kitchen,  and  the  shrill  treble  of  the 
negro  cook  drifted  out  to  them: 

"I's  altnos'  home, 

I's  almos'  home, 

I's  almos'  home, 

Fur  ter  ring-a  dem  cha'min'  bells." 

The  sun  was  already  up  now  and 
all  nature  was  astir.  A  gentleman 
came  out  on  the  front  piazza  as  our 
travelers  entered  the  yard.  Lawrance, 


A  Peep  at  Trampdom.        189 

being  new  at  the  business  and,  fur 
thermore,  desirous  of  studying  the 
methods  of  the  tribe,  waited  for  his 
companion  to  make  the  advances. 
This  he  did  in  the  most  approved 
fashion.  They  had,  he  stated,  had  the 
misfortune  to  lose  their  jobs,  had  both 
been  sick,  and  were  making  their  way 
further  South  where  their  people  were, 
and  would  he  be  so  kind  as  to  give 
them  so  much  as  a  crust. 

The  host  surveyed  the  speaker  with 
more  interest  than  sympathy,  and 
when  he  had  finished  speaking,  laid  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  turned  him 
almost  about  face,  then  after  a 
moment's  scrutiny,  laid  the  other  hand 
on  the  other  shoulder,  and  lifting  his 
foot,  as  he  stood  above  the  tramp,  sent 
him  sprawling  on  hands  and  knees  in 
the  grass.  This  was  done  a  great  deal 
more  quickly  than  it  takes  to  tell  it, 
and  almost  before  Lawrance  had  time 
to  wonder  at  it;  then  as  the  much-sur 
prised  tramp  gathered  himself  up,  the 
irate  host  exclaimed,  "Rube  Lacey, 
take  yourself  out  of  my  yard,  or  I 
will  give  my  bull-dog  a  taste  of  your 


I  go         In  White  and  Black. 

worthless  carcass,  and  don't  you  dare 
show  your  face  here  again.  Begone!" 
This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  that  clearly 
meant  no  trifling.  Rube  was  off  with- 
?  out  parley,  and  Lawrance  was  turning  ; 
to  follow,  wondering  what  it  all  meant, 
when  the  stranger  laid  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder  with  a  friendly  touch,  and  in 
his  ear  an  altered  voice  said,  "Stay  a 
short  while  and  you  shall  have  your 
breakfast."  A  man  so  situated  does 
not  need  two  invitations,  nor  much 
time  tON  decide,  and  Lawrance  was 
soon  seated  on  the  piazza  and  having 
his  curiosity  gratified  as  to  the  mean 
ing  of  what  he  had  just  witnessed. 

"You  were  surprised  at  my  treat 
ment  of  that  pesky  fellow.  That  ar 
gues  you  do  not  know  him.  I  do.  I 
commanded  a  company  of  Ohio  vol 
unteers  during  the  war.  That  man 
was  in  it.  He  is  a  vagabond  by  nature. 
He  is  an  arrant  cowaixL  He  could 
not  be  induced  to  fight.  The  only  '. 
wound  he  ever  got  was  in  the  back  of 
his  neck.  That  was  at  Chickamauga. 
My  men  fought  like  tigers.  Rube  was 
found  on  the  field  wounded,  bat  he 


A  Peefi  at  Trampdom. 

was  wounded  in  the  back.  I  will  not 
feed  a  man  who  was  shot  in  the  back. 
The  brave  men  of  the  South  who 
faced  us,  and  helped  us  put  into  his 
tory  a  record  of  courage  such  as  the 
world  never  saw,  can  get  a  piece  of 
the  last  crust  I  possess,  but  one  who 
wore  the  blue  and  dishonored  it  as 
that  man  did  may  starve,  for  my  part. 
He  did  not  know  me,  and  is  no  doubt 
wondering  now  why  I  treated  him  so 
roughly.  But  when  I  heard  his  voice, 
by  that  strange  law  of  association 
which  is  so  mysterious  a  power  in  our 
make-up,  that  whole  battle  came  up 
before  me,  and  amid  the  smoke  and 
the  roar,  the  faces  of  the  brave  boys 
who  followed  me  into  that  fight,  but 
never  followed  me  out,  even  to  the 
hospital  (for  I  went  there  desperately 
wounded),  looked  out  of  that  terrible 
past.  I  could  not  quite  think  who  he 
could  be,  but  it  dawned  on  me  at 
length,  and  when  I  turned  him  so  I 
could  see  his  dirty  neck,  the  mark  of 
his  infamy  told  the  story.  I  do  not 
wonder  he  is  a  tramp.  A  man  who 
will  shirk  duty  and  earn  disgrace 


192        In  White  and  Black. 

as  a  soldier  will  fly  in  the  face  of 
life's  difficulties.  A  man  who  tramps 
is  a  cowardly  deserter.  He  has 
simply  met  some  difficulty  in  life 
and  lacked  the  daring  to  face  it  out, 
and  having-  once  begun  to  run  has 
found  himself  incapable  of  rallying. 
From  your  manner  I  judge  you  have 
not  run  very  far,  and  my  advice  is  that 
you  make  a  stand  now." 

At  this  point  breakfast  was  an 
nounced,  and  Lawrance  was  thought 
ful  while  he  ate.  When  he  started 
on  his  journey,  he  did  not  leave  the 
influence  of  that  chance  meeting  be 
hind  him.  Over  and  over  it  kept  re 
curring  to  him  that  perhaps  he  was  the 
coward  that  fled  rather  than  fight  or 
endure.  There  came  back  to  him 
those  lines  of  Lord  Lytton's  that  over 
and  over  kept  time  to  his  tramping  and 
seemed  a  sort  of  comment  on  the  re 
mark  of  the  captain,  "A  man  who 
tramps  is  a  cowardly  deserter."  He 
was  no  tramp  but  he  felt  now  the 
shame  and  infamy  of  a  deserter,  and 
kept  repeating: 


A  Peep  at  Tramfidom.       193 

"Let  any  man  once  show  the  world  that  he  feels 
Afraid  of  its  bark,  and  'twill  fly  at  his  heels; 
Let  him  fearlessly  face  it,  'twill  leave  him  alone; 
But  'twill  fawn  at  his  feet  if  he  fling  it  a  bone." 

His  new  resolve  now  began  to  take 
shape,  and  before  the  day  closed  it 
had  become  a  definite  purpose.  Next 
to  the  confidence  and  conscience  for 
achievement  is  the  intelligent  ques 
tion,  "What?"  Lawrance  had  taken 
the  first  step  as  he  lay  resting  by  the 
roadside;  he  now  took  the  second,  and 
the  light  widened  before  his  eyes.  He 
would  make  a  study  of  life  among  the 
vagrant  and  outcast  on  its  own  ground 
and  from  the  vantage  of  its  own  ranks. 
This  came  to  him  like  an  inspiration. 
From  that  moment  it  became  a  con 
suming  enthusiasm.  He  was  no 
longer  a  defeated,  aimless  man,  but  a 
student,  a  man  with  a  purpose.  From 
that  day,  with  open  eyes,  mind  alert, 
and  sympathies  keenly  alive,  he  moved 
in  the  great  curious,  pathetic  under 
world,  where  men  struggle  without 
sympathy  and  sin  without  light.  He 
became  fascinated  by  the  study,  and 
as  he  drew  closer  to  the  heart  of  hu- 


IH  White  and  Black. 

manity,  he  began  to  hear  more  clearly 
the  unsyllabled  wail  of  the  disap 
pointed  and  defeated,  and  conceived 
a  passionate  longing  to  voice  it  to 
the  world. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

A  HOME-THRUST. 

Dora  had  well-nigh  become  accus 
tomed  to  surprises,  but  she  had  not 
exhausted  the  catalogue.  A  new  one 
came  one  afternoon,  some  weeks  after 
she  had  heard  the  truth  from  Chris, 
in  the  shape  of  a  note  from  Roswell 
Grantley.  It  read  as  follows: 

"Miss  MELTON:  If  you  will  allow 
me  to  see  you  this  evening1,  I  have 
something  to  say  that  may  interest 
you.  Should  you  grant  this  favor, 
you  will  win  my  gratitude,  and  you 
may  have  reason  to  be  glad  for  your 
own  sake.  Should  you  refuse,  I  fear 
we  shall  both  regret  it 

"With  lasting  regards, 

"ROSWELL  GRANTLEY." 

It  was  business-like,  she  thought, 
and  just  his  way  to  make  it  appear  no 
more  important  to  him  than  to  her. 
But  it  must  be  allowed  that  it  was 
adroit.  Who  could  guess  what  he 


193 


ig6        In  White  and  Black. 

might  have  to  communicate?  Per 
haps  she  might  learn  something  that 
lay  near  her  heart.  Besides  this,  she 
would  have  an  opportunity  to  say 
some  things  to  him  she  wanted  to 
say.  She  choked  down  the  indigna 
tion  she  felt  at  his  effrontery  and  an 
swered  in  the  affirmative. 

Roswell  was  both  patient  and  per 
sistent.  He  had  bided  his  time.  He 
had  made  no  approaches  since  Dora 
so  firmly  refused  to  entertain  his  suit. 
Now  he  hoped  his  opportunity  had 
come.  Her  hope  of  Lawrance  Ken- 
yon's  return  was  doubtless  feeble,  and 
she  must  now  be  thoroughly  convinced 
of  his  unworthiness. 

Melton  and  Ford  had  not  been  able 
to  resume  business  after  the  fire. 
They  had  done  a  large  credit  busi 
ness.  Farmers  and  planters  had  to 
begin  under  hard  conditions  after  the 
war.  They  were  without  fences,  for 
these  had  been  burned.  They  were 
without  stock,  for  these  had  been  car 
ried  off  by  one  side  or  the  other.  The 
negroes  were  free,  and  with  freedom 
came  idleness  and  vice.  Many  a  sol- 


A  Home-Thrust.  797 

dier  donned  the  gray  and  went  to  the 
front,  leaving  a  farm  in  a  high  state 
of  cultivation,  and  returned  to  find 
everything  in  ashes  and  his  fields 
overgrown  with  weeds.  These  vet 
erans  exchanged  the  soldier's  gray 
for  the  citizen's  homespun,  and  faced 
the  future  with  a  heavy  heart  and  an 
empty  purse.  That  battle  with  unac 
customed  poverty  required  more  cour 
age  than  to  face  the  guns  at  Bull 
Run  or  lead  an  assault  at  Fredericks- 
burg.  This  battle  was  often  to  be 
fought  with  a  broken  constitution,  an 
armless  sleeve,  and  taxes  instead  of  a 
pension.  There  was  not  much  help, 
save  here  and  there  a  faithful  servant 
who  had  stood  by  "ole  mistiss"  through 
the  dark  days  and  kept  the  wolf  at 
bay  while  master  fought  at  the  front, 
thus  making  a  record  of  noble  fidelity 
adequately  kept  only  on  high.  Yes, 
there  was  one  other  who  prayed  and 
waited  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
war-cloud  and,  when  the  sun  of  peace 
shone  again,  welcomed  the  new  strug 
gle  of  toil  and  self-denial  with  a  cour 
age  as  dauntless  as  that  exhibited  by 


ig8         In  White  and  Black. 

the  soldiers  of  either  side  of  the  late 
struggle — the  wife  and  mother  of  the 
Confederacy.  There  was  yet  another 
helper — the  merchant  who  lent  credit 
that  these  men  might  begin.  It  was 
here  that  Melton  and  Ford  took  their 
places  in  this  fierce  conflict  with  the 
new  conditions  and  fought  with  their 
money  and  financial  skill.  Many  a 
hearthstone  was  lit  with  cheer,  and 
many  a  plantation  took  on  life  and 
hope,  because  they  trusted  landlord 
and  soil.  Their  accounts  could  not  be 
paid  the  first  year,  only  in  part,  nor 
yet  the  second,  and  they  were  now  in 
the  third,  which  bid  fair  to  make 
things  easy,  and  they  were  straining 
their  resources  to  the  last  degree  to 
carry  their  customers  till  crops  were 
made,  when  the  fire  came.  In  order 
to  carry  out  this  purpose  and  have  an 
opportunity  for  collecting  arrearages, 
they  must  reopen  their  business. 

But  how?  They  must  borrow. 
They  did  business  with  the  Grantley 
bank.  They  were  bound  up  with  that. 
It  was  the  only  chance.  When  Ros- 
well  was  applied  to,  he  coolly  shook  his 


A  Home-Thrust.  199 

head.  The  times  were  too  uncertain, 
the  risk  was  too  great.  In  vain  Mr. 
Melton  plead  the  needs  of  the  plant 
ers  and  the  difficulty  they  would  have 
in  making-  new  contracts  for  supplies. 
In  vain  did  he  offer  almost  unlimited 
collateral.  All  the  past  friendships 
and  favors  counted  for  nothing.  Ros- 
well  only  remembered  his  reception 
when  urging  his  suit  for  Dora's  hand, 
and  now  he  was  avenged  for  that. 
He  even  gave  a  hint,  as  delicate  as 
such  a  hint  could  be,  that  if  things 
had  gone  differently  in  that  affair — 
and  the  heart  of  the  righteous  old  man 
burned,  not  more  with  indignation 
than  with  disappointment,  that  the 
son  of  his  dead  friend  could  so  de 
grade  the  name. 

Promptly  at  the  appointed  time 
Roswell  entered  the  Melton  mansion, 
ushered  in  by  Aunt  Lylie,  who  made 
an  effort  to  be  civil,  but  only  succeeded 
in  being  stiff. 

Dora  appeared,  calm  and  collected, 
her  eyes  rather  brighter,  as  they  were 
certainly  larger,  than  before  her  sick 
ness.  There  was  a  chastened  expres- 


200        In  White  and  Black. 

sion  that  gave  to  the  formerly  bright, 
girlish  face  a  new  dignity.  The  loss 
of  flesh  and  color  was  more  than  com 
pensated  by  the  new  light  of  womanly 
grace  that  shone  out,  and  a  beholder 
might  almost  imagine  that  the  soul 
had  become  impatient  of  the  flesh  and 
had  made  the  veil  thin  that  the  inner 
light  might  the  more  easily  shine 
through.  Roswell  started  a  little 
when  he  saw  this  new  Dora.  He  was 
already  agitated  and  a  trifle  uncertain 
how  to  proceed.  He  had  hoped  to  see 
in  Dora  some  sign  that  she  was  hum 
bled,  but  the  haughty  air  with  which 
she  received  him  was  anything  but  re 
assuring.  He  had  come  to  assume 
the  role  of  condescension,  but  instead 
he  found  himself  looked  down  upon 
and  a  suppliant  for  the  grace  of  a  word 
from  those  queenly  lips.  Her  manner 
piqued  him  and  that  was  a  relief. 
Even  anger  is  a  cure  for  awkwardness, 
if  it  does  not  go  too  far.  He  arose 
when  she  entered  and  would  have  ex 
tended  his  hand,  but  she  bowed,  and 
said  simply,  "Pray  be  seated." 


A  Home-Thrust.  201 

He  said  after  a.  moment's  silence,  a 
very  brief  moment,  but  it  seemed  long 
because  it  was  awkward: 

"I  am  happy  to  find  you  looking  so 
well  after  your  severe  illness.  I  trust 
you  are  yourself  again." 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "I  ought  to 
say  I  am  grateful  for  the  interest  you 
take  in  my  welfare." 

He  saw  that  conciliation  was  neces 
sary.  The  frigidity  of  her  manner 
chilled  him. 

"Miss  Dora,  it  was  my  earnest  hope 
that  in  this,  our  first  meeting  for  a  long 
time,  and  perhaps  our  last  for  all  time, 
you  would  exchange  your  prejudice 
against  me  for  a  more  judicial  temper. 
You  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I 
did  not  hope  for  much,  but  I  foresee 
that  the  little  I  did  hope  for  is  to  be 
lost  to  both  of  us  by  the  attitude  you 
have  assumed." 

She  replied  with  calm  dignity : 
''That  I  have  assumed  any  attitude  is 
pure  presumption.  As  to  the  perma 
nent  and  fixed  attitude  of  my  mind,  I 
am  incapable  of  laying  that  aside  for 


202          In  White  and  Black. 

an  occasion.  I  dare  not  act  a  part, 
even  for  the  price  of  your  favor  for 
an  hour.  I  believe  that  it  is  not  my 
worst  fault  that  I  have  failed  to  learn 
that  art  by  which  one  makes  protean 
transformations  to  suit  the  fancy  of 
the  hour." 

"Excuse  me  if  I  say  I  admire  your 
candor  more  than  your  sense  of  jus 
tice.  Granted  you  are  the  judge  on 
the  bench,  and  I  the  accused  at  the 
bar,  does  it  follow  that  all  testimony 
is  to  be  shut  off  and  sentence  pro 
nounced  because,  forsooth,  the  judge 
thinks  it  likely  the  prisoner  is  guilty? 
What  I  meant  by  my  remark  was 
simply  that  by  your  manner  of  resent 
ment  you  would  render  unprofitable, 
if  not  impossible,  the  communications 
I  came  to  make." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "if  it  is  my  manner  of 
which  you  speak,  I  own  to  having  given 
very  little  attention  to  that.  Nature 
is  always  sincere.  I  am  afraid  stud 
ied  manners  are  often  the  guise  of 
hypocrisy,  and  I  hate  that.  As  to 
the  legal  allusion,  I  know  littk  of 


A  Home-Thrust.  203 

such  things  but  I  can  not  conceive  the 
propriety  of  reopening"  a  case  at  every 
request  of  the  criminal." 

"It  grieves  me  much  to  find  you  dis 
posed  to  trifle.  I  am  not  in  a  mood 
for  such  things.  I  am  afraid  my 
visit  is  to  prove  in  vain." 

She  replied  in  a  tone  firmer  than 
she  had  yet  employed: 

"When  I  permitted  you  to  call,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  hear  you  to  the 
end,  and  that  you  asked  the  privilege 
was  to  me  proof  that  you  were  willing 
to  take  the  consequences.  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  harsh,  but  candor  compels 
me  to  confess  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  meet  you  on  the  plane  of  simple 
confidence." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  he  said  in 
a  subdued  voice: 

"This  is  unkind,  but  perhaps  I  have 
deserved  it.  If  I  were  as  guilty  as 
you  think  me,  even  the  penalty  of 
your  scorn  would  be  too  slight.  If  to 
be  self-deceived  be  an  unpardonable 
crime,  then  I  have  no  pleas  to  offer. 
And  what  is  past  pardon  is  also  past 
remedy." 


204         In  White  and  Black. 

"The  remedy  is  easy — marry  the 
woman  you  have  so  wronged,"  said 
Dora;  then  after  a  pause,  and  in  a 
changed  tone,  "But  you  are  right,  it  is 
past  remedy — for  you  both." 

"To  marry  where  the  heart  does 
not  consent  is  a  blunder  still  more 
fatal  and  equally  beyond  remedy. 
And  if  we  discovered  our  mistake  be 
fore  it  was  too  late  and  agreed  to 
drop  the  affair,  was  not  that  the  wiser 
course?" 

"To  be  sure,  you  dropped  the  heart 
of  which  you  had  made  a  toy  while 
it  pleased  you,  and  she  accepted  the 
situation,  as  any  self-respecting  wo 
man  would  have  done.  She  has  not 
sued  for  breach  of  promise,  nor  pub 
lished  her  grief  from  the  housetop, 
and  so  you  think  people  ought  to  be 
satisfied.  You  have  doubtless  heard 
of  the  quarrel  between  the  wolf  and 
the  lamb.  It  was  mostly  on  one  side, 
but  nevertheless  the  unoffending  lamb 
was  eaten,  and  I  have  never  heard 
that  it  gained  much  sympathy  by 
complaining,  or  that  the  wolf  died  of 
a  broken  heart." 


A  Home-Thrust.  205 

MI  see,"  he  replied,  "that  I  must 
leave  to  time  and  soberer  judgment 
the  righting  of  your  mind  on  that 
score.  I  trust  you  will  at  least  credit 
me  when  I  assure  you  of  my  lasting 
regard  for  you  and  of  my  earnest 
desire  to  be  a  friend  to  you.  If  I 
might  claim  that,  if  I  could  be  trusted 
and  thought  of  as  I  used  to  be,  it 
is  in  my  power  to  render  a  service 
to  you  and  yours  that  lies  very  near 
to  your  heart  and  still  nearer  to  the 
heart  of  your  father." 

Dora  was  surprised,  she  was  indig 
nant.  The  effort  at  self-control  made 
her  voice  tremble  like  a  cord  when  it 
is  strained  almost  to  breaking,  as  she 
said,  "You  ought  to  have  learned  by 
this  time  that  my  noble  father  does 
not  stoop  to  dishonor,  and  that  I  will 
neither  barter  my  love  nor  my  friend 
ship." 

"You  persist  in  misinterpreting  my 
words,"  he  said,  hastily.  "I  only  meant 
to  say  if  things  had  been  as  of  old  it 
would  have  been  a  pleasure  to  me 

to "  He  could  not  see  his  way  to 

go  forward;  in  fact,  he   felt  he  had 


206        In  White  and  Black. 

gone  too  far  already,  and  heartily 
wished  he  could  retreat;  but  alas, 
while  steps  may  be  retraced,  words 
once  out  are  out  forever. 

"Mr.  Grantley,"  she  replied,  taking- , 
advantage  of  his  pause,  "I  must  inform  \ 
you  once  for  all  that  such  hints  are  for 
the  market-place,  and  not  for  the  more 
sacred  affairs  of  life.    There  are  some 
things  my  father  and  I  hold  dearer 
than  gold." 

Cut  to  the  heart,  convinced  beyond 
all  doubt  that  further  words  were  use 
less,  and  feeling  that  he  would  be 
more  comfortable  out  of  this  situation, 
he  said  with  an  air  of  wounded  dig 
nity: 

"Miss  Melton,  it  is  clear  we  can  not 
understand  each  other.  I  regret  ex 
ceedingly  that  I  have  so  long  diverted 
your  thoughts  from  the  knight-errant 
whose  image  you  no  doubt  cherish 
tenderly  in  his  absence,  and  who  will ; 
doubtless  return  to  you  at  his  good  \ 
pleasure."  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  cold  irony,  the  cruel  sarcasm,  of 
these  last  words.  Into  them  he  threw 
all  the  sardonic  bitterness  of  disap- 


A  Home-Thrust.  20? 

pointment,  all  the  accumulated  resent 
ment  of  jealousy  and  wounded  pride, 
that  were  rankling1  in  his  heart.  There 
was  no  need  any  longer  for  seeming, 
no  hope  in  diplomacy.  He  arose  to 
retire. 

With  a  quiet,  but  commanding 
voice,  Dora  said,  "Do  not  be  in  a 
hurry  to  be  gone.  That  my  company 
is  not  the  most  agreeable  to  you,  I 
can  easily  imagine,  but  before  you  go, 
allow  me  to  direct  the  conversation 
for  a  few  minutes."  He  settled  him 
self  to  listen,  saying  simply,  "As  you 
will." 

"I  wish  to  tell  you  of  a  very  charm 
ing  story  I  have  been  reading,"  she 
proceeded.  "There  are  two  suitors, 
or  one  lover  and  a  suitor.  The  lover 
is  true,  generous,  and  passionate  in 
nature.  The  suitor  is  a  man  with 
more  shrewdness  than  conscience, 
selfish  and  heartless.  The  lover  is 
poor  and  humble,  the  suitor  proud  and 
rich.  The  suitor  is  refused.  Then,  in 
order  to  baffle  his  rival,  he  perpetrates 
an  infamous  fraud  and  contrives  to 
send  the  disappointed  lover  an  exile 


208         In  White  and  Black. 

into  the  world,  and  leaves  a  blighted 
life  behind  him.  Then  the  deceiver 
busies  himself  to  blight  the  good 
name  and  even  destroy  the  liberty  of 
the  absent  lover,  and  dares  to  seek 
the  confidence  of  the  woman's  heart 
that  he  has  crushed  by  his  perfidy." 

Her  voice  grew  in  force  and  fulness 
as  she  proceeded,  and  when  she  closed 
it  was  with  a  passionate  climax 
through  which  the  tragedy  of  her 
heart  poured  its  agony.  She  was  gaz 
ing  straight  at  Roswell  with  a  look 
that  not  only  saw  but  burnt.  There 
are  times  when  the  eye  is  a  lash  of 
scorpions.  Dora's  eyes  not  only  ac 
cused,  they  pleaded,  they  questioned, 
they  probed  the  conscience.  She  had 
spoken  more  than  she  knew,  but  less 
than  the  whole  truth.  He  dared  not 
deny. 

Roswell  could  not  conceal  his  dis 
comfiture.  He  sat  as  one  spellbound. 
The  color  faded  from  cheek  and  lip. 
He  clutched  his  hands  till  his  nails 
pierced  the  palms.  He  would  gladly 
have  hid  his  eyes  and  stopped  his 
ears,  but  instead  he  gazed  straight  at 


A  Home-Thrust.  209 

Dora  and  listened  to  every  syllable. 
When  she  ceased  speaking-,  his  breath 
ing  could  be  heard.  He  sat  in  her 
presence  as  a  felon  sits  in  the  presence 
of  the  judge  who  condemns  him.  In 
husky,  hesitating  tones  he  at  last 
spoke: 

"Pardon  me — if  I  can  not  compre 
hend — your  meaning." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  she,  "if  I  still  be 
lieve  you  can  not  fail  to  comprehend; 
guilt  is  not  so  forgetful." 

"My  God,  Dora,  spare  me!  Who 
told  you? — or,  rather,  what — but,  you 
know,  then?"  He  had  risen  as  if  to 
flee,  but  dropped  heavily  into  his  seat. 

"Mr.  Grantley,  you  have  tried  to 
think  me  hard  and  unreasonable,  even 
wanting  in  courtesy  to  a  visitor.  Now 
you  understand.  When  I  saw  before 
me  the  man  who  had  destroyed  my 
own  happiness  and  filled  the  life  of 
one  of  God's  noblemen  with  bitter 
ness,  do  you  wonder  that  my  heart 
did  not  warm  to  him  and  that  I  could 
not  exchange  with  him  pleasant 
speeches  and  accept  smilingly  his 
gracious  advances?  Listen  to  me, 


2i  o          In  White  and  Black. 

Roswell  Grantley,"  and  her  voice  grew 
tender  and  lost  all  trace  of  harshness, 
"we  have  both  suffered,  or,  at  least,  I 
have,  and  you  will,  for  'the  way  of  the 
transgressor  is  hard.'    To  add  to  your 
suffering  would  in  no  sense  assuage 
mine.     I  have  no  desire  for  revenge. 
I  have  learned  a  better  way.    I  shall 
not  reveal  this  except  for  the  protec 
tion  of  those  I  love.    There  was  one 
who  said,  'Do  good  to  them  that  de- 
spitefully  use  you.'    He  is  my  judge 
that  from  my  heart  I  pity  you,  for  the 
sufferings  of  your  victims  are  not  to 
be  compared  to  the  agony  of  a  guilty 
conscience    and   the    curse  of    God. 
These  are  your  heritage.     If  I  have 
given  you  pain,  it  was  intended  to 
bring  you  to  see  your  guilt,  the  depth 
of  which  I  did  not  believe  you  realized. 
And  now  that  we  understand  each 
other,  adieu.    No;  do  not  ask  my  par 
don — you  are  forgiven — only  ask  par 
don  at   the    Cross."     These   words, 
spoken  in  a  low,  tender,  solemn  voice, 
full  of  pity  and  pleading,  were  to  Ros 
well  like  the  voice  of  the  Eternal,  and 
he  was  awed  into  silence.    D  ora  turned 


A  Home-Thrust.  211 

from  him,  and  as  she  turned  he 
caught  sight  of  a  tear  on  her  cheek. 
He  went  out  with  a  new  feeling1  in  his 
heart  There  are  influences  that  re 
veal  us  to  ourselves  as  by  a  flash  of 
that  "light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land,"  and  we  are  nevermore  the  same 
as  we  were. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AS  REVEALED  BY  TYPE  AND  TONGUE. 

A  group  of  men  are  gathered  around 
a  slight  blaze  under  the  bank  of  the 
"Father  of  Waters."  Above  them 
is  a  starlit  sky.  The  subdued  mur 
mur  of  the  great  river  bears  ac 
companiment  to  their  speech  and 
laughter.  At  their  backs  is  the  hum 
and  bustle  of  the  city  of  New  Orleans, 
not  yet  asleep.  Reflected  in  the  danc 
ing  waters  are  the  lights  from  boats 
along  the  shore.  These  men  are  seated 
on  chunks  of  driftwood,  broken  casks 
picked  up  on  the  wharf  and  greasy 
packs  they  have  been  carrying.  Two 
or  three  lie  prone  upon  the  ground,  as 
if  tired  from  their  day's  travel,  for 
these  men  do  not  work,  they  only 
tramp.  One  sits  a  little  apart,  gazing 
out  across  the  river  with  a  thoughtful, 
preoccupied  expression.  He  does  not 
Seem  to  hear  what  is  going  on,  but  a 

aia 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  213 

more  careful  observation  shows  us  he 
is  giving  the  closest  attention.  As  he 
sits  there  in  the  starlight,  clad  as  the 
rest,  and  with  that  weary  look  on  his 
face  like  the  rest,  a  casual  observer 
would  see  no  difference,  but  there  is 
something  about  this  man's  face,  some 
thing  in  that  meditative  air,  that 
seems  to  betray  a  mind  divided  be 
tween  the  thoughts  of  the  present  and 
the  memories  of  the  past.  He  holds 
in  his  hand  a  notebook,  in  which  now 
and  then  he  furtively  makes  an  entry. 
Not  so  furtively,  however,  but  that  he 
is  observed  by  the  keen  eyes  of  one 
of  his  companions,  who  breaks  in  on 
the  hilarities  with: 

"Hello,  pards,  what  sort  of  a  rooster 
is  this?  Is  he  a  spy  on  the  hunt  for 
game,  or  a  star-gazer,  or  a  poet  writin' 
sonnets  to  his  Mary  Ann?" 

"Say,  my  honey,"  said  another, 
speaking  to  Lawrance  (for  it  was  none 
other),  "we  don't  'low  no  books  nor 
none  o'  that  sort  o'  truck  in  this  'ere 
club-room.  It's  ag'in  the  regerla- 
tions."  There  was  much  more  of  sim 
ilar  sort,  in  which  the  terms  "tender- 


2i 4         In  IV kite  and  Black. 

foot,"  "infant,"  "mamma's  darling-," 
"greeny,"  and  the  like,  were  used  as  a 
tribute  to  the  bookish  man.  A  rather 
pale,  spare  young  man,  who  sometimes 
coughed,  said  something1  in  a  low  tone, 
which  Lawrance  did  not  hear,  and  the 
raillery  ceased. 

Let  any  half  dozen  men  come  to 
gether  for  only  a  few  hours,  and 
one  of  them  will  develop  into  a 
leader  whose  leadership  will  soon 
come  to  be  acknowledged.  What  is 
that  strange  something  in  one  man 
which  others  respect  and  follow?  A 
mob  will  find  its  head,  even  as  a  repub 
lic  selects  its  leader.  This  feeble  young 
man,  who  rarely  spoke,  evidently  en 
joyed  the  distinction  of  leadership  in 
this  strange  group.  His  word  was 
law.  Did  they  quarrel,  he  pacified 
them.  Were  they  boisterous,  he 
quelled  them.  There  is  that  in  some 
personalities,  which,  whether  they  will 
or  not,  commands  men. 

To  detail  the  conversation  of  that 
eventful  evening  would  be  to  start 
some  of  the  most  profound  questions 
to  which  men  have  ever  addressed 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  215 

themselves.  It  would  introduce  us  to 
social  questions  from  an  entirely  new 
standpoint,  and,  it  maybe,  a  wiser  one, 
for  we  devote  our  time  too  much  to 
considering-  what  ought  to  be  and  not 
enough  to  considering  what  is. 

The  first  entry  in  Lawrance's  note 
book  was,  "These  are  men."  Surely 
a  fine  starting'-point  and,  shall  we  not 
say,  a  rather  novel  one.  They  are 
viewed  habitually  as  tramps,  "the  un 
employed,"  "the  submerged  tenth,"  or 
the  "criminal  class" — not  as  men,  the 
only  true  starting'-point.  Sitting1  there 
with  the  fitful  firelight  on  their  grim, 
forbidding1  faces,  smoking,  swearing, 
jesting  coarsely  at  most  sacred  things, 
in  seeming  league  with  darkness  and 
chaos,  one  is  tempted  to  think  of  these 
men  as  belonging  to  a  race  by  them 
selves.  Yet  they  had  mothers  and  a 
home,  or  what  was  called  one;  they 
cherished  the  dreams  of  childhood; 
they  have  had  their  loves  and  their 
hatreds;  their  joys,  mostly  behind 
them,  and  their  sorrows,  which  they 
wear  easily.  There  are  sentences  on 
which  their  voices  falter  with  pathos 


si6         In  White  and  Black. 

and  thoughts  that  make  their  speech 
quiver  with  indignation.  All  is  not 
dead  in  them;  they  are  men. 

At  length,  a  broad-shouldered  man 
of  forbidding  face,  who  called  himself 
"Shocky,"  a  name  evidently  sug 
gested  by  the  abundance  of  grizzly, 
reddish  hair  that  hung  or  rather 
spread  out  around  his  shoulders,  took 
from  his  pocket  a  worn  newspaper  and 
began  to  unfold  it  carefully.  This 
drew  attention  his  way.  He  said,  re 
ferring  to  the  book  episode: 

"Ef  you  don't  want  any  books 
around,  maybe  you  fellers  could 
stomach  a  hair-liftin'  story  from  raal 
life.  You've  been  a  spoutin'  yer  yarns 
here,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  yer  in 
yer  A  B  C's  in  the  business.  You've 
been  in  some  tight  places,  but  not  a 
blamed  galoot  among  you  ever  got 
cremated  and  then  read  yer  own  'bit- 
uary  in  the  papers.  But  here's  one 
what  has;"  and  he  handed  the  paper  to 
the  slim  young  man,  saying,  "Jist  you 
read  that,  pard."  The  young  man 
took  the  paper  and  read  aloud  an  ac- 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  217 

count  of  the  fire  that  destroyed  Mel 
ton  and  Ford's  store,  and  of  the  man 
supposed  to  have  been  burned. 
When  he  read  the  name  of  the  paper, 
The  Vandalia  Herald,  May  3,  1868, 
Lawrance  visibly  started,  and  as  the 
reading  proceeded,  his  face  was  piti 
ful  to  behold.  He  struggled  to  appear 
indifferent,  but  how  could  he?  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  heard  of  the  fire. 
He  had  avoided  newspapers,  and 
so  knew  nothing  till  now.  And  it  had 
occurred  on  the  very  night  he  left 
Vandalia!  A  fearful  dread  began  to 
settle  upon  him.  His  agitation  es 
caped  the  notice  of  all  save  one,  and 
that  was  the  reader. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  reading, 
Shocky  exclaimed,  "Pardners  of  mis 
ery,  I'm  the  chap  that  stole  that  ride 
on  'Lija's  chariot.  I'm  the  poor  un 
fortunate  that  got  cremated  an'  no 
funeral  charges.  Can  you  beat  that?" 
This  remark  was  greeted  with  various 
and  sundry  ejaculations,  untranslata 
ble  into  plain  English,  supposed  to 
contain  wit  entirely  adequate  to  the 


218         In  White  and  Black. 

situation,  and  adapted  to  the  case  of 
a  man  who,  so  to  speak,  attended  his 
own  funeral. 

Then  drawing  another  paper  from 
his  pocket,  he  handed  that  with  an  air 
of  triumph  to  the  same  one.  It  was 
dated  May  4th,  and  contained  the 
following: 

"MORE  ABOUT  THE  FIRE. 

"The  burning  of  Melton  and  Ford's 
store  on  the  night  of  the  second  has 
been  the  subject  of  much  comment. 
This  comment  has  been  spiced  with 
speculation,  both  as  to  how  the  fire 
occurred  and  the  identity  of  the  man 
who  lost  his  life  in  the  flames.  It  is 
believed  by  many  that  the  building 
was  set  on  fire.  There  had  been  no 
fire  about  the  building  during  the  day 
or  night,  nor  in  any  place  near  the 
building.  It  must  have  been  the  work 
of  an  incendiary,  and  suspicion  points 
to  an  employee,  who  has  never  before 
been  suspected  of  any  wrong.  Rumor 
has  it  that  an  affair  of  the  heart,  which 
for  the  sake  of  all  concerned  we  will 
not  mention  in  detail,  incited  him  to 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue. 

the  deed,  and  that  it  was  done  purely 
for  revenge.  There  were  no  indica 
tions  of  burglary,  or  other  assignable 
reason  than  the  one  hinted  at  above 
why  he  should  have  committed  the 
deed.  Weight  is  given  to  this  theory 
by  the  fact  that  this  young  man  dis 
appeared  the  night  of  the  fire  and  has 
not  been  heard  of  since,  and  no  one 
knows  anything  whatever  of  his 
whereabouts. 

"No  clue  has  yet  been  found  as  to 
who  the  man  was  who  perished  in  the 
flames.  No  one  has  been  missed  but 
the  young  man  above  mentioned,  and 
there  are  many  who  believe  he  was 
the  unfortunate  one.  Yet  the  most 
diligent  search  has  revealed  no  sign  of 
his  identity  among  the  ashes,  in  the 
way  of  watch,  keys,  jewelry,  or  any 
thing  of  the  sort.  There  are  many 
questions  that  arise.  Did  he  in  a  fit 
of  despondency  or  insanity  fire  the 
building  with  the  intention  of  making 
it  his  funeral  pile,  then  aroused  at  last 
make  a  frantic  but  futile  effort  to  es 
cape  the  doom  he  had  planned? 


220         In  White  and  Black. 

"Many  who  plainly  saw  the  man  at 
the  window  of  the  burning"  building  de 
clare  that  he  bore  no  sort  of  resem 
blance  to  the  young  man  in  question. 
That  being-  the  case,  it  was  perhaps 
some  man  who  rushed  in  to  assist  in 
saving  the  store,  and  retreat  was  cut 
off  by  the  flames.  It  must  be  ad 
mitted  that  Vandalia  has  a  mystery 
that  is  likely  to  remain  one  for  some 
time  to  come." 

Lawrance  was  struck  dumb  by  this 
revelation.  If  the  first  account  had 
startled  him,  the  second,  in  which  he 
saw  himself  held  up  as  maniac  or 
criminal,  overwhelmed  him.  But  this 
was  not  the  end.  The  hero  of  this  lit 
tle  drama  answered  the  chorus  of  ex 
clamations  and  questions  with: 

"Ef  you  confounded  curmudgeons 
'11  hold  yer  infernal  clappers,  I'll  tell 
you  a  dandy  that'll  make  that  myst'ry 
as  cler  as  the  bead  on  a  glass  o'  ole' 
rye.  You  see,  I  was  comin'  that  er 
way,  ez  any  hones'  knight  o'  the  ties 
mout  er  bin.  After  I'd  got  my  supper 
at  a  pious  ole  whipper-snapper's  that 
giv'  me  cold  chuck,  and  sassed  it  with 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  221 

warnin's  from  the  good  book,  I  wuz 
comin'  th'oo  the  town,  an'  I  met  a 
measly-lookin  chap  wearin'  the  rig  uv 
the  fraternity.  I  says  to  him,  'Hello, 
pard,  what  hotel  you  stoppin'  at?'  He 
said  ther  wa'n't  none  in  that  measly 
town  tony  'nough  fer  his  sort,  an'  he'd 
made  up  his  mind  ter  cut  ther  whole 
caboodle.  'Come  with  me,'  says  I, 
'to  the  only  fust-class  outfit  in  the 
town.'  'Fore  dark  I  had  seed  some 
straw  an'  boxes  at  the  hin'  eend  uv  a 
big  store.  So  we  slipped  in  there  an' 
laid  down.  The  other  chap  quiled  up 
like  a  tired  dog  on  the  straw,  an'  soon 
he  wuz  snorin'  like  a  sawmill.  I  lit 
my  pipe  an'  had  giv'  it  a  few  pulls, 
when  my  peepers  fell  onto  a  door  in  a 
sort  er  shed-room  at  the  eend  o'  the 
big  store.  Yer  see,  I'm  none  er  yer 
one-hoss  sideshows,  but  er  reg'lar 
combination  outfit.  I  know  ther  ropes 
er  the  trade,  an'  can  change  climate 
fast  'nough  ter  keep  cumf'table,  an' 
then  I  can  merniperlate  the  tools  jes' 
fur  pastime.  It  puts  pepper  in  the 
soup  an'  makes  life  interestin'.  Some 
things  is  ter  be  had  fur  ther  askin',  an' 


222        In  White  and  Black. 

some  is  ter  be  had  fur  the  takin',  an' 
one's  ez  cheap  as  t'other.  A  door's  a 
temptation,  I  argy,  that  oughtn't  ter 
be  set  before  the  virtuous  youth  uv 
'the  land.  It's  more  then  the  weak-r 
ness  uv  the  flesh  kin  stand.  I  went5 
across  ter  this  door,  an'  tried  her  with 
my  pets  thet  I  allus'  carry,  an'  it 
opened  like  er  charm.  When  I  got 
inside,  I  struck  a  match,  an'  it  wuz  full 
er  barrels  an'  cans  an'  things.  The 
sight  uv  er  barrel  teches  my  nerves 
same  ez  the  sight  uv  the  mother's 
breast  does  a  baby,  so  I  went  up  ter 
one  by  the  light  uv  my  match,  an'  the 
smell  uv  it  showed  it  wan't  nuthin'  but 
this  'ere  kerryseen.  But  I  seed  a  kag 
in  the  corner  that  had  er  devil  uv  er 
suspicious  look.  I  went  over  ter  that, 
an'  the  smell  uv  it  carried  me  back 
twenty  year.  I  felt  my  mouth  waterin' 
like  er  wet-weather  spring.  Ther  wuz 
er  quart-cup  er  settin'  on  top  uv  it,  an' ; 
I  snatched  it  up  an'  turned  the  fawcet  \ 
into  it  I  could  hear  it  laugh  an'  sing  '• 
ez  it  run,  an'  the  very  soun'  seemed  to 
make  me  furgit  my  troubles.  Talk 
'bout  yer  music  an'  yer  sweet  soun's, 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  223 

but  erbout  the  sweetes'  soun'  these 
ears  of  mine  have  ever  hearn,  sence 
my  mammie  sung  me  ter  sleep,  wuz 
the  guggle  uvthat  licker  in  that  quart- 
cup.  When  I  couldn't  stand  to  hear 
it  no  longer  fur  the  cravin'  fur  er  taste, 
I  tuk  a  big  gulp  uv  it.  Gee-whilikins! 
Thunder  an'  blazes!  It  wuz  strong  ez 
aky-fortis,  an'  hot  ez  liquid  perdition. 
It  'peared  ter  cook  the  hide  clean 
down  ter  my  heels.  Fur  er  minnit,  I 
wuz  ez  blind  ez  er  bat,  an'  couldn't 
git  er  breath.  I  tried  ter  holler  fur 
help,  butyer  cain't  holler  'thout  breath. 
The  tears  run  down  same  ez  when  my 
daddy  used  ter  thrash  me.  Thunder 
and  blazes!  but  I  thought  I  wuz  piz- 
ened  shore.  But  'dreckly,  I  got  my 
breath  back  agin,  an'  begun  ter  feel 
easier.  Soon  ez  I  could,  I  struck  er 
match  an'  saw  er  paper  on  the  head 
uv  the  kag  marked,  'Alkerhaul,'  an' 
then  I  knowed  it  wan't  pizen.  Feelin' 
strong  ernough  ter  go  on  with  my  in- 
vestergations,  I  went  up  er  pair  er 
stairs  side  er  the  brick.  There  wuz 
another  door  at  the  head  uv  the  stairs. 
It  wuz  unlocked,  so  I  invited  myself 


224         IH  White  and  Black. 

in.  I  hadn't  much  more'n  got  inside, 
when  my  head  begin  ter  whirl  like 
windin -blades;  I  begin  ter  feel  ez 
heavy  ez  ef  I  weighed  er  ton;  my 
knees  begin  ter  trimble,  an'  I  couldn't 
move  er  peg.  That  all-fired  stuff  had 
flew  ter  my  head,  an'  I  wuz  dead 
drunk.  I  jes'  fell  in  er  heap  like  er 
wool  sack,  an'  in  er  minnit  didn't 
know  no  more'n  er  dead  man.  I 
don't  know  how  long  I  laid  in  that 
shape,  but  when  I  waked  up,  I  thought 
shore  I  had  gone  ter  kingdom  come. 
There  wuz  smoke,  smoke,  ever'wher', 
an'  the  sparks  an'  cinders  wuz  fallin' . 
roun'  me  like  rain.  I  heerd  the  folks 
screamin'  an'  rushin'  erbout  outside. 
I  jumped  up  an'  turned  to'ards  the 
door  that  I  come  in  at,  an',  by  jucks, 
the  blaze  wuz  rushin'  an'  howlin' 
through  it  like  the  devil  beatin'  tan- 
bark.  In  er  minnit  I  wuz  ez  sober  ez 
er  judge.  I  felt  my  way  the  best  I 
could  ter  the  side  winder,  an'  quick 
ez  lightnin'  broke  the  sash.  Then 
there  wuz  big  bars  on  the  outside  like 
them  on  er  jail.  I  laid  holt  an'  done 
my  level  best  ter  break  'em,  but  they 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  225 

wuz  too  tough  fur  me.  I  could  see 
the  faces  uv  the  people  as  they  looked 
up  at  me.  Then  I  felt  the  floor  give 
'way,  an'  I  went  down  with  er  crash. 
I  give  it  up,  I  thought  I  wuz  er  gone 
fawn-skin  an'  no  mistake.  All  at  onct 
I  felt  er  mighty  jolt  an'  when  I  come 
ter  myself,  I  wuz  lyin'  in  er  cool  place, 
erbout  ez  dark  ez  Egypt.  When  I 
raised  up,  my  head  come  nearly  oppo 
site  ter  er  hole  that  showed  the  light 
on  the  outside.  Reachin'  up,  I  found 
it  wuz  er  place  wher'  air  comes  into  er 
cellar.  There  wuz  bars  outside  o' 
this  too,  an'  in  huntin'  'round  fur  some- 
thin'  ter  break  'em  with,  my  hand  fell 
on  er  big  rope  an'  then  on  the  edge  uv 
er  platform  I  wuz  standin'  on,  an* 
lookin'  up,  I  seed  er  square  hole  in  the 
upper  floor,  an'  then  I  knowed  'twuz 
the  elevator.  The  ropes  hed  burnt  in 
two,  an'  I  wuz  standin'  on  it  when  it 
fell.  I  got  a  good  grip  on  one  er 
them  bars  an'  swung  myself  up.  I 
found  they  wuz  busted  loose  at  one 
end,  so  I  wrenched  'em  off  an'  crowded 
out.  Then  I  wuz  'twixt  two  walls  not 
more'n  a  yard  apart,  an'  it  wuz  a  reg'- 


226        In  White  and  Black. 

lar  Vissuvius,  only  the  fire  wuz  comin' 
down  instead  er  goin'  up.  I  had  ter  do 
somethin'  mighty  quick.  I  felt  'long 
the  wall  er  the  other  house  ter  a  win 
der.  This  I  pried  open  in  a  jiffy,  an* 
climbed  in,  feelin'  my  way  to  the  rear, 
fur  I  didn't  want  ter  go  out  at  the 
front.  I  found  the  door  open.  Some 
people  wuz  there  all  excited.  I 
grabbed  er  box  an'  run  right  through 
the  crowd,  an'  nobody  noticed  me. 
That  wuz  what  I  wanted.  I  w'an't 
hankerin'  after  public  rekernition  then, 
fur  if  they'd  er  caught  me,  I'd  er 
thought  it  hard  luck  that  I'd  got  out 
er  the  fire  into  the  fryin'-pan.  When  I 
got  out,  you'd  better  bet  yer  bottom 
dollar  I  made  tracks.  So  yer  see,  ez 
fur  ez  that  hullabaloo  about  that  man 
that  got  roasted's  concerned,  it's  all 
foam  an'  no  beer,  fur  he's  here  soun' 
an'  out  er  jail  an'  able  ter  eat  his  'low- 
ance.  But,  pards,  what  I  allus  wanted 
ter  know  wuz  whut  become  uv  that 
spider-legged  paddy  I  left  sleepin'  in 
the  straw." 

This  recital  was  received  with  much 
enthusiasm   and   applauded    as   "the 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  227 

best  thing  in  the  show."  Exciting 
as  it  was,  Lawrance  was  unable  to 
follow  it.  The  thoughts  that  filled  his 
own  mind  were  more  exciting  still. 
Dora — what  did  she  think  of  him  now? 
Did  she  believe  him  capable  of  such  a 
crime?  Perhaps  now  he  was  to  her 
but  a  criminal,  who  was  willing  to 
stoop  to  injure  her  and  her  father 
because  she  had  refused  him.  His 
heart  was  still  sore.  He  felt  that 
she  had  not  been  even  kind  in  her  re 
fusal,  but  still  he  could  not  bear  to 
be  held  a  criminal  in  her  eyes.  Did 
he  know  she  believed  him  dead,  he 
would  not  care,  he  would  even  re 
joice,  but  as  he  thought  of  her  mind 
being  poisoned  with  a  vile  suspicion, 
an  indescribable  pang  shot  through 
his  heart.  He  would  cross  oceans 
and  continents,  he  would  even  die,  to 
remove  that  suspicion.  What  others 
might  think  he  did  not  care,  but  she 
must  know  that  his  honor  was  un-  - 
stained.  She  might  not  care  for  him, 
she  evidently  did  not,  but  she  should 
not  despise  him  as  a  base  criminal. 
If  she  could  only  know  this  man's 


228        In  White  and  Black. 

story.  If  he  could  in  some  way  secure 
the  proof  of  what  he  had  just  heard. 
This  would  be  his  only  opportunity. 
To-morrow  these  men  would  be  up  and 
away,  he  knew  not  where,  and  the  lips 
of  the  only  man  who  knew  the  most 
important  secret  on  earth  to  him  would 
be  closed  to  the  utterance  that  might 
save  his  name  in  the  eyes  of  the  only 
one  for  whose  good  opinion  he  cared. 
He  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  on  the  bare 
earth,  gazing-  at  the  distant  stars  and 
thinking  of  these  things  the  remain 
der  of  the  night. 

When  the  first  faint  streaks  of  gray 
began  to  adorn  the  east,  he  arose  and 
moved  cautiously  among  the  prostrate 
forms  locked  in  the  healthful  slumber 
of  men  tired  with  travel  and  breath 
ing  the  pure  oxygen  day  and  night. 
He  was  making  his  way  to  where  the 
burly  "Shocky"  lay  with  a  chunk  of 
driftwood  under  his  head,  when  the 
young  man  who  had  been  reader  for 
them  rose,  and,  motioning  to  Law- 
ranee  to  follow,  stole  away  to  a  safe 
distance.  Full  of  wonder  at  what  it 
meant,  Lawrance  followed.  When 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  229 

out  of  earshot  of  the  others,  the  young 
man  turned  and  said: 

"I  think  I  understand  you.  You 
are  not  one  of  that  sort.  Neither  am 
I.  You  do  not  know  me,  but  I  know 
you.  Your  name  is  Kenyon.  I  knew 
you  the  moment  I  saw  you.  How?  I 
saw  you  the  afternoon  before  the  store 
in  which  you  were  bookkeeper  was 
burned.  Look  at  that  by  the  light  of 
this  match,"  and  he  handed  Lawrance 
a  photograph.  What  was  his  astonish 
ment  to  look  on  a  picture  of  himself. 
For  the  moment  he  could  utter  no 
word  which  was  fitting,  and  the  young 
man  made  a  gesture  for  silence  and 
proceeded: 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I  knew  you? 
Listen.  I  am  a  detective,  not  by  pro 
fession — for  I  am  a  lawyer — but  be 
cause  it  interests  me  and  because  I 
hope  to  build  up  my  health  in  this  way. 
And  you  are  here  because — well,  that 
does  not  matter  now.  You  want  the 
proof  of  what  you  heard  from  Shocky 
last  night.  You  were  about  to  do  a 
very  foolish  thing.  That  man  is  des 
perate,  dangerous.  You  have  money. 


230         In  White  and  Black. 

Had  you  told  him  so,  he  would  not 
have  hesitated  to  feed  your  body  to 
the  fish,  if  he  got  a  chance.  There  is 
not  another  man  there  who  would 
harm  a  hair  of  your  head,  or  take  your 
purse  if  you  left  it  lying  in  sight.  But 
Shocky,  I  saw  him  watching  you.  He 
is  suspicious.  Had  you  offered  to  bribe 
him,  it  would  have  been  not  only  use 
less  but  dangerous.  I  was  with  him 
the  night  of  the  fire.  I  was  not  asleep 
when  he  entered  the  door.  Men  are 
not  always  asleep  when  they  snore. 
But  being  weary,  I  fell  asleep,  and  was 
wakened  by  the  fire-bells  just  in  time 
to  escape.  I  was  on  his  track,  and 
that  was  the  first  time  I  had  met  him. 
I  have  seen  him  several  times  since, 
but  he  has  not  recognized  me.  He  is 
one  of  three  men  who  robbed  a  train 

of  the  railroad  last  winter. 

The  others  are  about  San  Antonio, 
Texas,  where  he  is  going  to  meet 
them.  I  shall  keep  track  of  him  until 
I  can  seize  all  three. 

"How  did  I  come  by  your  picture? 
It  was  sent  to  me  here.    It  appears 


Revealed  by  Type  and  Tongue.  231 

that  the  insurance  companies  are  on 
your  track.  They  have  somehow  been 
led  to  believe  you  burnt  the  store. 
They  have  somehow  discovered  or 
guessed  that  you  are  wandering1  in 
this  guise,  and  have  set  me  on  the 
trail.  You  may  keep  the  picture.  I 
am  at  your  service." 

Here  he  extended  his  hand,  which 
Lawrance  grasped,  while  his  eyes 
swam  in  tears.  He  had  listened  to 
this  man's  rapid  tale  with  deepening 
wonder  and  in  rapt  silence.  He  felt 
a  swelling  of  unutterable  gratitude  to 
this  man  who  assumed  to  his  mind  the 
mission  of  a  benefactor  to  him  in  his 
extremity,  but  instead  of  uttering  his 
thanks,  or  expressing  his  surprise,  he 
returned  to  the  one  thing  that  con 
cerned  him  most. 

"The  proof,  can  1  get  that?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  can  do  so,  if  you  will  trust 
me." 

"Trust  you?    Nothing  is  easier." 

"Then  leave  it  to  me;  and  now  we 
must  part,  for  they  are  stirring  al 
ready." 


232        In  White  and  Black. 

A  few  more  hurried  words,  and  these 
two  understood  each  other.  Hence 
forth  they  were  friends,  and  Lawrance 
felt  he  could  rest  his  interests  in  such 
hands  without  hesitation.  Thus  they 
parted  and  went  their  ways. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WESTWARD  AND   WORKWARD. 

We  parted  with  Lawrance  in  New 
Orleans.  When  he  bade  farewell  to 
the  tramp  detective,  he  turned  his  face 
towards  Texas.  It  was  growing  hot, 
and  counting  cross-ties  is  not  a  choice 
pastime  under  a  Southern  sky  in  June. 
Consequently,  Lawrance  preferred 
to  travel  on  the  trains,  only  acting 
in  his  character  as  tramp  when  it  was 
possible  to  study  that  interesting  spe 
cies.  A  few  days  later  found  him  in 
San  Antonio,  whither  he  had  bent  his 
steps  from  New  Orleans. 

He  felt  the  throb  of  a  restless  energy. 
He  was  anxious  to  work,  He  meant 
to  write  a  book  on  "tramp  life."  For 
this  he  had  been  accumulating  mate 
rials.  It  was  to  be  fiction  founded  on 
the  facts  he  had  gathered  and  was 
gathering.  He  felt  that  sense  of 
power  to  do,  that  burning  eagerness 

233 


234         IH  White  and  Black. 

to  beg-in,  and  saw  the  outline  grow 
into  shape  before  his  mind  with  that 
delicious  vividness,  which  together 
constitute  the  signs  of  avocation.  He 
was  moved  by  no  mercenary  motive, 
nor  by  mere  ambition,  but  by  an  al 
most  overmastering  desire  to  express 
what  was  seething  in  his  mind.  He 
was  in  that  mood  out  of  which  all  great 
achievements  are  born.  No  man 
says  his  best  word  till  he  speaks  as  a 
prophet  on  whom  the  breath  of  the 
unseen  has  fallen,  and  through  whom 
a  strange  new  voice,  before  unheard, 
is  struggling  for  expression. 

To  secure  a  room,  to  clothe  himself 
decently,  to  procure  materials,  and  to 
begin,  required  a  very  brief  time.  It 
was  amazing  to  him  how  thoughts 
crowded  upon  him.  He  had  never 
before  found  such  pleasure  in  work. 
Reading  over  late  at  night  the  pages 
he  had  written  during  the  day  was 
more  intensely  interesting  than  that 
of  any  romance  he  had  ever  read. 
These  pages  were  a  surprise  to  him. 
He  had  never  dreamed  of  being  ca 
pable  of  such  work — but  once. 


Westward  and  Workward.    235 

He  was  making1  great  headway  in 
his  work,  when  he  suddenly  remem 
bered  more  than  three  months  had 
passed  and  he  had  not  yet  seen  nor 
heard  from  the  detective.  He  had  the 
pledge  of  this  man  that  the  coveted 
confession  of  Shocky  should  be  put 
in  his  hands,  either  by  mail  or  in  per 
son,  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 
His  impatience  had  been  allayed  by 
the  interest  in  his  work,  and  if  it  had 
not,  what  could  he  have  done?  He 
could  not  guess  where  his  detective 
was  wandering,  yet  he  had  unbounded 
confidence  in  his  integrity  and  also  in 
his  capacity  to  do  what  he  had  prom 
ised.  Still,  as  the  days  wore  on,  he  be 
came  more  restless  and  waiting  be 
came  harder.  This  day  the  burden 
became  too  great  for  work,  and  he 
pushed  his  papers  aside  and  went  out 
for  a  walk. 

He  soon  found  himself  in  the  Alamo, 
for  his  room  was  not  far  from  this  shrine 
of  liberty.  He  walked  back  and  forth 
in  the  old  building  with  its  dirt  floor, 
the  same  floor  once  dyed  with  patriot 
blood;  gazed  upon  the  walls,  the  same 


236         In  White  and  Black. 

walls  once  stormed  by  shot  and  shell, 
and  felt  the  thrill  of  the  memories 
which  that  handful  of  men  on  that  fa 
tal  day  had  bequeathed  to  these  dead 
rocks,  and  listened  to  the  trumpet- 
tongued  voice  of  freedom,  with  which 
they  had  animated  this  historic  pile. 
He  thought  how  much  nobler  was 
man  than  all  his  works,  how  he  can 
give  to  dull  matter  a  value  and  a 
meaning1  that  shall  thrill  generations 
yet  to  be.  There  is  no  beauty  of  form, 
nor  grandeur  of  proportion,  nor  charm 
of  color  that  can  match  the  magnifi 
cence  of  noble  deeds.  The  Pass  of 
Thermopylae  needs  no  chisel  or  brush 
or  architect.  It  has  been  made  for 
ever  sacred  ground,  set  apart  from  all 
other  spots,  by  the  chrism  of  heroic 
blood.  The  Alamo,  although  a  hum 
ble  building1,  has  been  lifted  infinitely 
above  the  architectural  splendors  of 
the  world's  great  buildings.  It  was 
lit  with  a  glory  no  painter's  brush 
could  furnish,  a  glory  that  still  dazzles 
the  tear-dimmed  eyes  of  all  patriot 
pilgrims  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  by 
the  cruel  offering  there  made  on  the 


Westward  and  Workward.    237 

altar  of  freedom.  It  is  not  always 
what  men  accomplish,  but  sometimes 
what  they  dare  attempt,  that  is  great; 
and  apparent  failure  is  sometimes  real 
success.  The  men  who  died  at  the 
Alamo  lived  multiplied  a  hundred 
times  at  San  Jacinto.  The  hands 
that  let  fall  the  broken  swords  in 
death,  but  not  defeat,  rocked  the  cra 
dle  in  which  the  giant  Liberty  was 
nurtured. 

Such  thoughts  filled  the  mind  of 
Lawrance,  and  made  him  for  a  time 
oblivious  to  all  else.  At  last  when  he 
shook  off  the  spell  and  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  present  and  his  eyes 
to  the  door,  he  saw  a  man  gazing  at 
him  in  a  fashion  and  with  an  eye  he 
did  not  fancy,  and  they  belonged  to 
an  altogether  unprepossessing  person 
ality.  Somehow  he  felt  a  little  squeam 
ish,  but  he  put  the  incident  from  his 
mind  and  returned  to  his  room  and  to 
his  work,  and,  as  he  thought  of  the  de 
tective's  delay,  consoled  himself  with 
the  thought  that  there  were  many  in 
terruptions  likely  to  occur  in  the  travel 
of  one  pursuing  a  tramp.  The  de- 


In  White  and  Black. 

tective  had  probably  been  led  far  out 
of  the  way  and  would  require  time. 
He  trusted  implicitly  in  the  faith  of 
T  this  new  friend,  so  strangely  discov 
ered,  j 
It  was  his  habit  now  and  then  to  don 
his  tramp  outfit  and  go  out  and  make 
a  detour  of  the  city  and  suburbs,  al 
ways  keeping  his  note-book  handy,  and 
keeping  his  eyes  open  for  "Shocky," 
or  any  familiar  face.     He  thus  found 
opportunities   for  his  peculiar  study, 
and  at  the  same  time  refreshed  his 
mind  and  body  with  change,  and  re 
turned  to  his  task  reinvigorated.    All 
he  had  to  do  was  to  clothe  himself 
properly,  walk  out,  lock  his  door,  turn 
round  to  the  right,  pass  through  a 
hedge  of  fig-trees,  clamber  down  the 
river-bank  at  the  rear  of  the  house, 
come  out  at  whatever  street  suited  his 
fancy,  either  above  or  below,  then  go 
on  his  way.     When  ready  to  return, 
he  simply  retraced  his  steps,  and  no  i 
one    was    the   wiser.    The    despised 
tramp  of  yesterday  was  the  polite,  at 
tractive  gentleman  of  the  breakfast- 
table.     No  one  knew  who  or  what  he 


Westward  and  Workward.    239 

was.  He  was  the  masked  boarder, 
the  subject  of  much  gossip  in  guesses. 
We  could  enliven  these  pages  with 
the  grotesque  suspicions  and  wild  sur 
mises  exchanged  by  his  fellow  board 
ers,  all  of  which  anyone  could  safely 
vouch  for  who  is  familiar  with  human 
nature  of  the  boarding-house  variety. 
We  must,  however,  leave  something 
to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  or  to 
his  experience.  The  imagination  of 
Lawrance  was  much  aided  by  certain 
mysterious  glances  exchanged  at  the 
table,  certain  questions  asked  with  a 
poorly  feigned  indifference.  He  was 
not  a  little  amused  at  the  curiosity  of 
two  single  ladies  of  uncertain  age, 
which  was  obtrusive  enough  to  have 
been  exasperating  if  it  had  not  been 
so  amusing.  By  purest  chance  he 
learned  that  he  was  reputed  to  have 
five  living  wives,  when  the  poor  fel 
low  could  not  get  himself  one;  that  he 
was  engaged  in  vast  mining  specula 
tions  in  Mexico  and  was  worth  mil 
lions,  when  if  "Tramp  Life"  failed  to 
prove  a  remunerative  venture,  he 
should  soon  be  in  a  position  to  try 


240        In  White  and  Black. 

that  life  in  earnest;  that  he  was  a  de 
tective,  and  was  liable  any  day  to  cre 
ate  a  sensation  by  seizing-  some  noted 
criminal,  when  he  was  far  more  likely 
to  be  seized  himself.  From  this  he 
could  guess  at  the  unsettled  state  of 
the  boarding-house  mind  in  regard  to 
its  mysterious  boarder.  Had  he  for 
gotten  Dora?  Rather,  let  us  ask,  was 
she  ever  absent  from  his  mind?  Did 
the  pain  of  her  loss  ever  leave  him? 
Fight  as  he  would  against  it,  the  sense 
of  his  utter  loneliness  and  desolate- 
ness  would  come  over  him  again  and 
again,  like  a  huge  wave,  and  Dora's 
image  would  steal  in  between  his  eye 
_and  the  blank  page  and  he  would 
drop  his  pen  and  think,  and  think  al 
ways  of  the  night  under  the  beech 
and  the  few  hours  of  delirious  joy  he 
had  known.  When  he  wrote  a  page 
that  was  particularly  pleasing  to  him, 
he  found  himself  wondering  if  it 
would  ever  fall  under  Dora's  eye,  and 
if  she  would  praise  it;  and  then  he 
bent  to  his  work  with  a  new  zest 
More  than  he  knew,  though  in  sor 
row  and  bitterness  of  heart,  he  was 


Westward  and  Workward.    241 

still  working  under  the  inspiration  of 
his  pure  first  love.  Love  for  Dora 
had  discovered  to  him  his  power,  and 
the  thought  of  her  held  that  power  to 
its  task.  There  was  slight  hope  that 
what  he  did  would  be  rewarded  by  her 
smile,  but,  nevertheless,  back  through 
the  weary,  checkered  months  ran  the 
unbroken  thread  of  his  sweetest  mem 
ory  to  the  scene  under  the  beech,  and 
along  with  it,  as  an  electric  current, 
thrilled  an  undying  inspiration.  Why, 
he  could  not  tell.  The  best  and  most 
beautiful  things  in  human  experience 
defy  analysis. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

TRAIL  AND  COUNTER-TRAIL. 

Lawrance  was  returning  to  his  lodg 
ing's  late  one  night  in  his  customary 
disguise.  He  had  just  crossed  a  foot 
bridge  and  was  making  his  way  across 
a  lonely  bit  of  common,  the  very  ap 
pearance  of  which  was  suggestive  of 
ugly  deeds.  It  was  dark  with  over 
hanging  boughs,  and  the  foot-path 
was  lined  with  rank  weeds  and  bushes. 
Suddenly,  in  the  darkness  he  heard 
footsteps  coming  on  in  an  opposite 
direction,  a  sudden  blaze  of  light  fell 
full  upon  him,  and  lingered  for  a 
moment,  then  it  was  dark  again.  It 
was  not  an  experience  one  would 
court  for  the  pleasure  of  it.  In  a  mo 
ment,  before  he  had  time  to  think 
twice,  he  heard  the  steps  move  aside 
in  the  gloom,  as  if  inviting  him  to 
pass.  This  invitation  he  was  not  slow 
to  accept.  The  light,  he  felt  sure,  came 

242 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      243 

from  a  dark-lantern  in  the  hands  of 
some  man  who  had  studied  him  for  a 
moment  by  its  light  and,  probably 
judging  from  his  garb  that  he  was  not 
a  tempting  prize  for  robbery,  had  let 
him  pass. 

He  congratulated  himself  that  he 
was  well  out  of  it  when  he  had 
entered  the  open  street,  a  hundred 
yards  away.  He  was  breathing  freely 
and  walking  with  quick  steps  towards 
his  room,  when  there  came  over  him 
that  strange  impression  of  being  fol 
lowed  which  without  any  testimony  of 
the  senses  sometimes  steals  upon  one, 
something  like  the  impression  made 
upon  the  nerves  by  the  air  of  a  damp, 
cold  cellar.  Looking  back,  he  saw  a 
man  slouching  in  the  shadows  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  A  little 
observation  proved  that  this  man  was 
keeping  even  pace  with  him.  When 
he  turned  the  corner  and  passed  on  a 
few  paces,  he  looked  again  and  the 
pursuer  was  still  on  his  trail.  He 
naturally  connected  this  man  with  the 
encounter  in  the  common,  and  could 
but  wonder  why  he  should  follow  him, 


244        In  White  and  Black. 

seeing  there  was  no  effort  made  to 
overtake  him.  There  is  a  natural  dis 
position  to  elude  one  who  pursues 
you,  a  desire  to  escape  prying  eyes. 
Lawrance  began  an  effort  to  elude 
this  man.  He  did  not  go  direct  to  his 
room,  but  by  a  circuitous  route  reached 
the  river  a  block  below,  and  managed 
to  throw  himself  over  the  railing  of 
the  bridge  that  spans  the  river  there 
and  clamber  down  the  bank  into  the 
shadow  before  his  pursuer  came  in 
sight.  He  heard  footsteps  cross  the 
bridge  and  felt  that  he  had  thrown 
his  man  off  the  trail.  Lawrance 
came  out  from  his  hiding-place,  made 
his  way  along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
climbed  the  bank  and  was  soon  in  his 
room,  where  he  thought  much  over 
the  strange  incident.  Perhaps  he 
would  have  thought  more  had  he 
seen  the  man  who  watched  him  by 
the  feeble  street-lamp  from  behind  a 
pillar  of  the  bridge  until  he  passed 
behind  the  fig-trees  in  the  yard. 

There  was  a  stranger  at  the  break 
fast-table  next  morning.  He  wore  a 
face  that  made  you  ask  questions,  a 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      245 

face  that  seemed  to  have  something 
behind  it  that  its  owner  would  not 
care  to  tell.  Lawrance  was  not  fav 
orably  impressed  by  him.  He  was 
sensible  of  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
in  this  stranger's  presence.  Who  has 
not  felt  so? 

Lawrance  saw  him  no  more  till 
supper.  After  supper,  it  was  not  a 
mere  accident  that  led  Lawrance  to 
follow  the  stranger  as  he  went  out. 
He  could  not  say  just  why  he  took  the 
same  street  and,  keeping  well  in  the 
shadows  and  at  an  unsuspicious  dis 
tance,  watched  this  man  who  had  some 
how  interested  him.  A  few  blocks 
away  there  was  a  broken  fragment  of 
wall  that  once  enclosed  a  part  of  the 
court  of  the  Alamo.  Near  this  two 
men  emerged  from  the  shadows  and 
joined  the  other.  Together  they  stole 
into  the  cover  of  this  wall  and  sat 
down.  By  a  slight  circuit  Lawrance 
could  come  up  on  the  opposite  side 
and  easily  hear  their  conversation. 
It  was  an  astonishing  conversation  to 
him. 


246         In  White  and  Black. 

"We  must  make  sure  of  our  man," 
and  Lawrance  recognized  the  voice  of 
the  new  boarder.  "A  mistake  would 
make  mischief.  Nobody  seems  to 
know  anything"  of  him  at  the  boarding- 
house.  The  time  he  has  been  there  is 
all  right,  but  we  must  be  sure." 

"Sure!  Don't  I  know  that  curmud 
geon?  Didn't  I  see  him  las'  night  in 
the  same  gyarb  he  wore  at  New  Or 
leans?  Didn't  I  see  'im  go  up  the 
bank  like  er  beaver  goin'  to  his  hole, 
an'  ain't  that  the  only  boardin'-house 
on  that  street?  Didn't  I  see  him  this 
mornin'  in  his  other  rig,  an'  I  tuck  'im 
in  at  a  glance?  Pards,  it's  the  same 
galoot.  Changin'  cloze  don't  change 
the  man.  The  game's  treed  shore,  or 
my  name  ain't  Shocky.  He's  waitin' 
here  fur  them  papers  that  sickly  chap 
got  fixed  up  fur  'im.  I'm  a-thinkin' 
it's  likely  that  hobo's  passed  in  'is 
chips,  and  them  papers  went  up  the 
spout  with  him.  He  promised  me  er 
slice  er  the  puddin'  he  wuz  bakin',  but 
it's  no  use  waitin'  fur  that.  If  we  kin 
git  our  clinchers  on  this  rooster,  we'll 
pull  a  pile  er  feathers  out  er  him,  or 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      247 

else  git  the  reward  thet's  offered  fur 
'im." 

Lawrance  listened  to  their  plot  to 
seize  him  and  secure  a  handsome  sum 
either  as  reward  or,  preferably,  force 
him  to  pay  them  a  round  price  for  lib 
erty.  His  blood  leaped  as  he  listened. 
He  saw  all  too  clearly  the  peril  to 
which  he  was  exposed.  He  knew 
something  of  the  infamy  and  cruelty 
of  these  men.  He  had  tried  to  realize 
a  sort  of  kinship  between  himself  and 
all  the  world's  wanderers,  and  had 
schooled  himself  to  look  with  a  degree 
of  allowance  on  that  in  the  lives  of 
such  men  which  was  intolerable  in 
other  men.  He  now  saw  a  gulf  yawn 
between  him  and  these  men  as  wide 
as  eternity.  His  sense  of  brotherhood 
received  a  great  strain.  He  saw  his 
own  case  was  desperate  indeed.  Brutal 
and  criminal  as  these  men  were,  their 
standing  was  equal  to  his,  and  might 
be  a  vast  deal  better  if  they  were  not 
mistaken  in  their  supposition  concern 
ing  his  present  position  before  the  law. 

He  gave  way  to  a  momentary  feel 
ing  of  dread.  Then  came  a  swift  reac- 


248         In  White  and  Black. 

tion.  The  fear  which  he  had  at  first 
felt  of  these  men  gave  way  at  once  to 
a  sense  of  power  and  security.  Before 
he  had  taken  time  for  thought,  he  had 
leaped  over  the  wall  and  stood  before 
the  wretches,  his  form  straightened  to 
its  full  height,  his  arms  crossed  on  his 
breast,  and  his  eyes  fixed  fiercely  on 
them.  They  were  taken  completely 
by  surprise.  They  rose  to  their  feet 
and  stood  as  if  uncertain  what  to  do. 
Each  right  hand  sought  instinctively 
the  deadly  revolver,  the  inseparable 
accompaniment  of  a  criminal  life. 
Here  they  paused  as  if  some  strange 
power  held  them  in  its  grasp.  Stand 
ing  thus  in  the  half-light,  they  formed 
an  interesting  group.  Lawrance 
broke  the  silence.  He  spoke  slowly 
and  in  a  low  tone,  but  his  words  vi 
brated  and  throbbed  with  passion: 

"Villains,  here  is  your  victim,"  he 
said.  "He  is  only  one,  you  are  three. 
He  is  unarmed.  You  are  armed  for 
deeds  of  death.  But  I  defy  you.  I 
am  in  your  power,  but  you  will  not 
dare  to  do  me  harm;  not  because 
you  do  not  desire  it,  but  because  you 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      249 

are  weak  and  cowardly.  You  are 
wanting"  in  that  which  alone  makes 
men  strong  and  brave;  with  that  I  am 
armed,  and  it  is  an  armor  that  hate 
can  not  penetrate  nor  brute  violence 
overcome.  The  innocent  are  always 
master  of  the  guilty.  You  meet  in 
the  darkness  to  plot  against  a  fellow- 
man  who  never  did  you  or  any  man 
harm.  You  would  destroy  him  as 
coolly  as  you  would  set  your  foot  on 
a  worm  in  your  path.  Not  content 
with  murder  and  pillage,  you  would 
traffic  in  weakness  and  misfortune, 
and  see  the  innocent  wear  the  infamy 
of  your  guilt.  Beware!  Your  time  is 
short.  If  you  would  lengthen  the 
chapter  of  your  guilty  deeds,  make 
haste.  Would  you  add  one  more 
crime  to  the  crimson  list,  now  is  your 
opportunity." 

Here  he  drew  a  step  closer,  and 
his  tones  softened,  "Do  I  hate  you? 
Why  should  I?  I  pity  you.  The 
same  God  made  you  and  me.  His 
stars  shine  alike  up  there  for  you 
and  for  me,  but  your  deeds  dim  their 
light.  You  were  once  little  chil- 


250         In  White  and  Black. 

dren,  clinging  to  the  breasts  of  fond 
mothers.  What  would  it  not  be  worth 
to  you  to-night  to  live  for  one  brief 
moment  amid  the  experiences  that 
your  innocent  childhood  filled  with 
happy  dreams.  1  have  read  the  fiery 
syllables  in  which  the  tragedy  of  lives 
like  yours  is  written.  I  have  listened 
to  the  lengthened  cry  of  anguish  that 
the  guilty  smother  behind  a  criminal 
exterior.  I  have  seen  the  feeble  but 
passionate  movement  of  the  poor 
broken  wings  of  a  mangled  manhood. 
I  would  not  punish  you  if  I  could.  I 
would  not  exchange  places  with  you 
for  the  world.  I  am  unfortunate,  you 
are  criminal.  There  is  no  misfor 
tune  that  a  true  life  may  not  illumine, 
there  is  no  fortune  that  guilt  will  not 
turn  into  a  hell.  O  brothers,  brothers 
— but  what  am  I  that  I  should  so 
speak?"  So  saying,  he  turned 
abruptly  to  walk  away,  not  a  hand  or 
a  voice  forbidding.  Some  influence 
seemed  to  restrain  them. 

But  the  restraint  was  only  mo 
mentary.  He  had  only  taken  a  step 
when  a  blow  on  the  head  felled  him 


Trail  and  Counter-  Trail.      25 1 

to  the  earth  and  left  him  only  half 
conscious  of  what  was  going  on.  In 
less  time  than  is  consumed  in  the  tell 
ing,  he  was  bound,  gagged,  and  being 
dragged  along  by  these  desperadoes 
he  knew  not  where.  They  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  blindfold  as  well  as 
to  gag  him.  They  stopped  at  length, 
and  he  heard  a  grating  sound,  as  of 
the  opening  of  a  heavy  door  or  the 
removal  of  some  obstruction.  Then 
he  was  carried  through  a  narrow 
opening  and  down  a  short  flight  of 
steps  into  what  he  took  to  be  a  cellar. 
He  heard  the  door  or  grating  close 
after  them.  Then  they  made  their 
way  along  what  seemed  a  narrow 
passage  for  quite  a  distance,  and 
Lawrance  was  laid  on  a  damp  stone 
floor.  In  a  few  minutes  the  ban 
dage  was  removed  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw  a  rather  forbidding  situa 
tion.  By  the  dim  light  of  a  rude  lamp 
that  hung  from  a  wall  of  masonry,  he 
saw  they  were  in  a  sort  of  tunnel,  with 
some  rude  stools,  stuff  for  pallets,  and 
other  primitive  articles,  indicating  that 
this  was  a  hiding-place  to  which  these 


s$2         In  White  and  Black. 

men  were  accustomed.  They  with 
drew  to  a  short  distance  and  consulted 
together  a  few  minutes,  and  when  they 
returned,  the  spokesman  of  the  three 
began: 

"Seeing-  you  are  to  share  our  hos 
pitality  for  a  time,  Mr.  Kenyon,  we 
extend  a  welcome,  and  offer  you  the 
best  we  have.  We  hope  you  will 
make  yourself  comfortable  during 
your  stay.  Roarer,  bring  that  bottle 
from  the  sideboard  and  we  will  drink 
to  the  health  of  our  guest." 

The  sideboard  was  a  greasy  box, 
used  evidently  as  cupboard,  table, 
chair,  as  the  occasion  might  demand. 

"Here's  to  you,  and  to  prove  it  isn't 
poison,"  and  the  spokesman  drank 
deeply,  then  handed  to  Lawrance, 
who  refused  it,  and  to  the  others,  who 
drank  freely. 

"We  have  been  looking  for  you  for 
some  time,"  the  spokesman  resumed. 
"A  mutual  friend  got  us  interested  in 
you  before  we  came  to  the  city  this 
time.  We  are  sorry  to  have  over 
looked  you  so  long.  We  meant  no 
disrespect;  it  was  unavoidable.  Just 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      253 

as  we  were  planning  to  go  to  you,  by 
a  stroke  of  good  fortune  you  came 
to  us.  We  were  too  polite  to  inter 
rupt  you  in  the  fine  things  you  were 
saying,  and  besides,  the  street  is  not  a 
suitable  place  to  conduct  a  serious 
discussion.  So  when  you  concluded, 
we  decided  to  return  to  our  private 
chamber  and  bring  you  with  us. 

"What  you  were  saying  to  us,  Mr. 
Kenyon,  would  doubtless  be  applica 
ble,  if  there  were  any  truth  in  the  ad 
age,  There  is  honor  among  thieves;' 
but  that  is  one  of  those  convenient 
falsehoods  invented  by  the  crafty  and 
reiterated  by  the  ignorant.  There  is 
the  same  honor  among  thieves  as 
among  other  people;  that  is,  none  at 
all.  For  instance,  here  are  three  of 
us;  I  do  not  trust  these,  they  do  not 
trust  me.  When  it  is  to  their  interest 
to  betray  me,  they  will  do  so.  They 
know  I  hold  them  as  dear  as  their 
service  to  me  can  make  them.  When 
their  hanging  shall  pay  me  better  than 
their  living,  I  hang  them,  and,  as  the 
teachers  say,  vice  versa.  To  this  hour, 
we  hang  together,  that  we  may  not 


254         In  White  and  Black. 

hang  separately.  That  remark  is  his 
toric,  and  history  is  repeating  itself. 
We  three  are  engaged  in  a  revolution. 
We  want  to  get  the  bottom  rail  on 
top.  That  is  to  say,  we  are  normal 
human  beings,  with  the  luck  a  little 
against  us  at  present. 

"Men  live  together  in  society  as  we 
live  here.  They  watch  each  other,  use 
each  other,  and,  as  opportunity  offers, 
devour  each  other.  I  was  devoured 
several  times  myself  while  clinging  to 
that  stale  lie  that  honest  men  out 
number  rogues.  Why  do  men  obey 
laws?  Because  they  think  it  best  for 
themselves.  We  think  it  to  our  inter 
est  to  violate  law.  Where's  the  differ 
ence?  Sleek  and  proper  gentlemen 
pose  as  patterns  of  righteousness  and 
grow  rich  off  the  gullibility  of  the 
public.  Their  manners  are  the  smooth 
key  with  which  they  unlock  the  safety- 
vaults  of  success.  We  choose  to  use  . 
a  different  kind  of  key.  They  are  ] 
called  gentlemen  and  we  are  called 
rogues.  Well,  there  is  nothing  in  a 
name,  and  it's  all  one  to  me  which  one 
I  am  called  by.  It  comes  to  the  same 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      255 

in  the  end.  I  have  my  little  day,  and 
then — well  it  is  interesting.  One  can't 
have  his  way  all  the  time,  and  the  only 
wisdom  in  this  world  is  to  make  the 
most  of  it  while  you  can.  I  used  to 
be  what  the  world  calls  a  gentleman, 
but —  (here  there  was  a  pause,  and  a 
brief  shadow  crossed  the  careless 
face) — let  that  pass.  It  is  out  of  its  dra 
matic  relations  in  this  chapter. 

"To  come  to  the  point:  you  are  a 
gentleman  among  thieves.  As  the 
thieves  are  in  the  majority,  and  thieves 
and  gentlemen  can  not  agree,  I  sup 
pose  it  is  clear  to  you  that  the  gentle 
man  must  lose  the  contest.  In  other 
words,  you  are  in  our  power.  The  law 
wants  you.  The  law  has  offered  to 
pay  a  thousand  dollars  for  you.  We 
are  opposed  to  the  law,  but  we  want 
the  money.  You  pay  us  the  money* 
and  you  go  free.  If  you  don't,  then  we 
turn  you  over  to  the  law.  We  shall 
regret  to  do  the  law  a  favor,  but  it  is 
in  exchange  for  a  favor.  We  prefer 
to  give  you  your  freedom  for  the 
same  amount.  It  is  purely  a  matter 
of  business  with  us,  and  the  profits 


256        In  White  and  Black. 

of  business  are  simply  a  question 
of  power. 

"To  illustrate:  You  are  in  debt.  You 
go  to  your  sleek  shylock,  and  you  say, 
'Lend  me.'  He  smiles,  rubs  his  hands, 
and  says,  The  risk  is  great  I  must 
have  my  twenty  per  cent.'  You  cringe, 
but  you  pay  it.  The  power  is  his — 
of  money.  Or  you  are  hungry.  It  is 
bad  to  be  hungry.  You  go  to  the  man 
who  sells  food.  He  and  others  have 
bought  it  all  up.  They  have  held  it, 
counting  on  the  power  of  hunger.  He 
says  food  is  up,  up.  But  you  must 
pay  the  price.  He  has  the  power  on 
his  side.  These  are  our  power  (pat 
ting  the  butt  of  his  pistol  and  the  ropes 
on  Lawrance's  hands  and  feet).  Your 
liberty  is  at  stake.  We  demand  our 
little  profit.  You  pay  it.  We  smile, 
and  you  go  free,  and  we  go  on  our 
way. 

"You  will  vote  for  your  shylock  and 
your  food-vender  for  congress  as 
soon  as  they  are  rich  enough,  us  you 
will  hang — when  you  catch  us.  That 
is  a  blunder.  It  is  all  a  blunder.  Had 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      257 

there  been  any  thing  else,  I  should  have 
been  living  on  Fifth  avenue,  instead 
of  in — well,  it  don't  matter  where,  only 
it  is  not  exactly  a  palace. " 

Then  after  a  pause,  "What  have 
you  to  say  to  our  proposition?'' 

The  face  and  manner  of  this  man  had 
been  a'study  during  his  talk.  Lawrance 
saw  before  him  a  sort  of  combina 
tion  of  the  shrewd  man  of  affairs,  the 
blase  man  of  the  world,  the  abandoned 
criminal,  and  the  embittered  misan 
thrope.  It  was  hard  to  tell  which  pre 
dominated.  His  situation  was  not 
favorable  either  to  the  study  of  char 
acter,  to  which  he  had  schooled  him 
self,  or  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  peculiar 
type,  but  he  could  not  help  being 
drawn  away  from  his  perils  by  both 
influences  as  he  listened  and  watched 
by  the  flare  of  the  lamp  that  hung  by 
the  wall  the  changes  on  the  face  of  this 
strange  man.  His  absorption  had 
kept  him  from  being  ready  for  his  part 
in  the  curious  performance.  Indeed, 
he  had  hardly  been  able  to  realize 
what  it  all  meant.  He  was  about  to 
speak  after  a  time,  but  was  relieved 


258         In  White  and  Black. 

from  doing  so  by  the  spokesman,  who 
began  again: 

"You  do  not  answer?  Perhaps  you 
want  a  little  time  to  think  it  over. 
You  have  understood  me,  and  know 
the  alternative.  You  pay  us  our  profit 
in  this  little  game  and  go  free,  or  the 
law  pays  it  and  you  go  to  prison.  At 
any  rate  we  are  sure  of  our  profit.  Do 
you  understand?"  Lawrance  simply 
nodded.  "Then  I  give  you  till  morn 
ing  to  decide.  Then,  if  you  have  a 
friend,  you  can  write  him,  or  her 
(and  here  there  was  a  look  that  had 
some  meaning  Lawrance  did  not 
then  divine).  Here  are  writing  ma 
terials.  You  can  write  and  I  will 
deliver  your  missive.  Now  I  must 
leave  you,  for  my  business  calls  me. 
Make  yourself  as  comfortable  as  you 
can,  for  you  may  have  to  enjoy  the 
hospitality  of  our  mansion  for  some 
time,  till  this  business  is  settled.  Good 
night." 

So  saying  he  stole  into  the  dark 
ness.  His  footfalls  could  be  heard 
like  the  tick  of  a  clock,  until  he  passed 
out  into  the  night.  Lawrance  now 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      259 

began  to  study  the  situation  more 
closely.  By  the  dim  light  of  the  lamp 
he  could  see  above  a  few  feet  an  arch 
of  masonry,  beneath  which  one  could 
scarcely  walk  erect.  On  either  side 
were  walls  only  a  few  feet  apart.  This 
was  all,  except  two  walls  of  darkness 
that  wavered  and  crept  as  the  lamp 
flared  and  flickered.  He  made  out 
that  he  was  imprisoned  in  some  sort 
of  walled  passage  or  tunnel.  There 
was  clearly  no  need  for  guards,  and 
soon  the  two  remaining  men  went  out 
without  even  a  word,  except  a  whis 
pered  consultation  together. 

Left  thus,  Lawrance  never  felt  him 
self  so  much  alone.  It  was  as  if  all 
the  world  was  dead  and  he  was  in  a 
living  grave.  He  had  read  of  dark 
ness  that  could  be  felt,  but  he  had 
never  before  thought  of  a  silence  that 
could  be  felt.  The  sound  of  his  own 
breathing  startled  him  and  he  could 
hear  the  beating  of  his  heart.  He 
welcomed  the  companionship  of  a 
spider  that  crawled  out  in  the  light  on 
the  wall  opposite.  It  was  a  comfort 
to  know  that  one  other  living  thing 


260        In  White  and  Black. 

tion.  It  was  plainly  a  desperate  one. 
These  men  were  capable  of  anything-, 
however  mean  or  cruel.  They  cared 
nothing  for  human  life  and  as  little 
for  human  rights.  He  could  not  pay 
their  price  for  liberty  even  if  he  would, 
and  he  would  not  if  he  could.  He 
must  take  his  chances  in  the  courts,  if 
he  were  ever  so  fortunate  as  to  see  the 
light  of  day  again.  Those  men  led  a 
precarious  life.  They  might  be  cap 
tured  or  killed  in  their  prowling,  and 
he  be  left  to  die  unhelped  and  unpitied 
in  that  awful  dungeon.  These 
thoughts  occupied  his  mind  he  knew 
not  how  long.  It  seemed  to  him  an 
age  since  he  had  come  there,  when — 
what  was  that?  It  surely  sounded  like 
a  footfall  in  the  silence.  It  was  com 
ing  nearer.  Was  it  a  footstep  or  only 
the  beating  of  his  heart?  He  could 
not  hope  for  the  coming  of  a  friend, 
but  an  enemy  was  preferable  to  this 
loneliness  and  silence.  To  lie  still  in 
such  a  den,  not  knowing  where  you 
are,  with  vistas  of  unexplored  dark 
ness,  and  you  know  not  what  else,  be- 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      261 

tween  you  and  light,  the  sound  of 
dripping-  water  striking  on  the  air  in 
the  dead  silence — thus  to  wait  for  you 
know  not  whom  or  what  to  creep  upon 
you,  and  no  hand  to  strike  in  your  de 
fense,  and  no  ear  to  hear  your  cry — it 
must  be  a  hot-blood  that  would  not 
chill  at  the  experience.  The  steps  came 
nearer.  Lawrance  held  his  breath. 
Nearer  still.  Straining  his  gaze,  he 
saw  in  the  dim  light,  that  had  grown 
dimmer  now,  a  shadow  waver  on  the 
wall,  then  the  form  of  a  man  come  in 
view.  Nearer  still.  In  his  hand  was 
something  that  glistened  in  the  light. 
It  was  a  knife.  Nearer — the  form 
bent  over  his.  The  empty  left  hand 
was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  a  gruff  voice 
said:  " Are  you  awake?" 

The  eyes  alone  answered. 

"Be  easy.  Do  as  I  tell  you."  And 
he  stooped  and  cut  the  ropes  from  the 
feet.  "Get  up — come."  Without  an 
other  word  the  man  moved  in  the  di 
rection  from  which  he  had  come,  with 
a  very  cautious  tread,  now  and  then 
pausing  to  listen,  with  finger  on  his 


262         In  White  and  Black. 

lip.  Lawrance's  hands  were  still 
bound.  Where  was  he  being1  led? 
On,  on,  it  seemed  to  him  an  intermin 
able  distance,  in  the  choking  air,  the 
impenetrable  darkness,  the  mouldy 
smells  no  sunlight  had  ever  touched 
with  one  purifying  ray.  On,  on,  in  si 
lence,  broken  only  by  the  ring,  ring,  of 
their  footsteps,  hollow  and  weird.  At 
last  there  was  something  akin  to  light, 
or  a  sort  of  faded  darkness.  The  air 
was  less  dense.  Then  the  guide 
stopped,  listened,  motioned  his  charge 
to  wait,  went  forward  further,  listened 
again,  then  returned. 

"Mr.  Kenyon,  I  am  a-goin'  to  turn 
you  loose.  Don't  as'  me  no  questions 
an'  I  won't  have  to  tell  you  no  lies. 
Them  'at  lives  underground  don't  talk. 
You  go  alone.  There's  eyes,  eyes,  ev 
erywhere.  If  they  are  open,  they  musn't 
see  but  one;  ef  they  do,  the  jig's  up. 
When  you  git  out  turn  round,  an'  in  the 
sky  you  will  see  the  lights  o'  the  city. 
When  you  git  thar,  ef  you  ever  do, 
don't  stay,  for  the  bloodhounds  will 
be  on  yer  track.  Keep  mum's  the 
ticket.  You  don't  know  nothin'  tell  I 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      263 

see  you,  ef  we  both  live — which  ain't 
by  no  means  certain.  You  can  go — 
but  I  have  not  loosed  your  hands. 
No,  I  don't  need  no  thanks,  I'm  git- 
tin'  better  pay.  Go,  an'  sell  out  dear 
ef  you  haf  ter." 

Having  cut  the  bonds  from  Law- 
ranee's  hands,  and  put  the  knife  in  his 
right,  his  companion  led  the  way  to 
where  the  tunnel  came  to  an  abrupt 
termination,  and  he  had  only  to  clam 
ber  up  a  steep,  and  he  was  in  what  one 
would  take  for  a  cavern-mouth  or 
sink-hole.  Around  it  grew  bushes  and 
reeds,  and  there  were  also  heaps  of  rub 
bish  that  had  gathered  for  years.  The 
dew  glittering  on  the  grass  in  the  star 
light  was  beautiful,  and  the  air  was 
sweet.  It wasa lonely spotandtheknife 
was  a  comfort.  As  he  was  taking  his 
bearings  the  silence  was  broken  by  the 
hoot  of  an  owl  close  to  his  left.  Look 
ing  up  he  found  it  came  from  the  walls 
of  a  ruined  building,  and  as  he  gazed 
the  proportions  of  a  tower  still  majes 
tic  and  time-defying  came  out  against 
the  sky,  and,  recognizing  the  ruins  of 
an  old  mission,  he  thought,  "Those 


264         In  White  and  Black. 

old  Jesuits  loved  dark  and  secret 
ways,  and  spared  no  toil  to  provide 
against  surprises." 

Lawrance  reached  his  room  in 
safety.  He  felt  it  would  be  wise  to 
take  the  advice  of  his  deliverer  and 
quit  the  city  for  a  time.  He  was  pon 
dering"  over  the  situation  next  morn 
ing,  when  he  heard  a  knock  on  his 
door.  At  his  invitation  a  man  entered 
and  stood  before  him  who  would  have 
been  a  study  for  an  artist.  His  hair 
was  uncut  and  uncombed.  His  beard 
coarse,  stubby  and  of  a  grizzly  hue. 
His  person  was  innocent  of  soap  and 
water.  His  clothes  were  shabby,  ill- 
matched,  and  without  pretense  of  fit 
ting.  There  was  a  stoop  at  the  shoul 
ders  and  a  furtive,  hunted  look  out  of 
the  eyes,  imparted  by  a  life  of  misery 
and  criminality.  Withal,  he  was  a  pic 
ture  to  excite  commiseration.  When 
asked  to  take  a  seat,  he  replied: 

"Wall,  I  mought  set  down  a  minnit, 
fur  I  want  a  word  wi'  ye.  Ye  mayn't 
mind  I  wuz  one  o'  them  you  wuz  talkin' 
to  out  there  las'  night,"  with  a  jerk  of 
the  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Alamo, 


Trail  ana  Counter-Trail.      265 

"an'  I  may  say  I  am  the  chap  that  sot 
you  free.  I  wuz  one  o'  that  sort,  but 
I've  come  ter  tell  yer  I've  quit  fer 
good.  Chris  Ware  is  goin'  ter  be 
sober  an'  honest  the  rest  o'  his  nat'ral 
life;  yes  sir,  sober  an'  honest  Them 
two  things  goes  together,  an'  ef  I'd 
allus  been  sober  I'd  a-been  honest. 
When  I  tuck  ter  drink,  it  warn't  long 
tell  I  tuck  to  wuss.  Sence  ye  said 
what  ye  did  las'  night,  I  been  a-thinkin', 
an'  I  made  up  my  min'  ter  turn  over  a 
leaf. 

"You  wuz  in  a  close  place.  Them's 
bad  un's.  An'  I've  got  in  a  close 
place  by  helpin'  you  out,  but  that's 
nothin'.  I  bin  thar  before  now,  an' 
if  they  finish  me,  which  they  will 
if  they  git  the  drap,  it  won't  be  no  big 
job,  an'  I'll  be  at  the  finishin',  an'  they 
know  it,  All  night  I  been  a-thinkin' 
o'  my  wife,  what  died  'bout  six  months 
ago  all  along  o'  my  bad  treatment.  I 
could  hear  'er  cough,  an'  see  'er  pale, 
tired  face  es  plain  es  my  hand.  I 
could  see  my  boy  Chris — you've  seen 
'im,  a  peart  boy  'e  is — and  hear  'im 


266         In  White  and  Black. 

cryin'  fur  'is  ma,  'at  wuz  all  the  com 
fort  'e  had. 

"You  may  not  know  what  it  is  to 
have  so  many  things  you  can't  undo, 
an'  ter  have  'em  come  up  before 
you  like  that.  Somehow  yo'  words 
brought  it  all  back  to  me,  an'  the  sight 
of  ye  minded  me  of  the  time  ye 
knocked  me  down  whin  ye  come  in  on 
me  usin'  the  wife  rough  like.  Yes,  I'm 
the  chap  ye  floored,  an'  I've  allus  liked 
ye  fur  it.  An'  I  'lowed  ter  git  even, 
an'  I  dun  it  las'  night.  An'  I'm  goin' 
ter  work,  an'  ef  I  ever  can  do  anything 
fur  ye,  let  me  know,  fur  I  owe  ye  a 
sight  more'n  I  can  ever  pay." 

So  saying,  he  was  about  to  go,  but 
Lawrance  restrained  him.  This  man 
had  given  him  his  liberty,  if  not  his 
life.  This  seemed  to  Lawrance  a  lib 
eral  reward  for  having  knocked  him 
down  only  once.  He  was  impressed 
with  the  evident  sincerity  of  the  man. 
Moreover,  he  had  no  idea  of  missing 
this  opportunity  of  learning  the  possi 
ble  whereabouts  of  the  detective. 

Questioning  this  fellow,  Lawrance 
learned  that  the  detective  had  become 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      267 

too  weak  to  travel  as  they  were  on 
their  way  from  the  borders  of  Mexico. 
His  companions  had  stolen  away  and 
left  him  without  notice.  He  had 
managed  to  get  the  confession  from 
"Shocky,"  and  they  had  become  a 
little  suspicious  of  him,  and  so  left 
him.  They  had  not  been  long  in  the 
city.  When  they  reached  the  city 
their  pal  who  was  here  before  them 
had  already  got  track  of  Lawrance. 
His  clew  they  had  followed  till  last 
night's  developments. 

Lawrance  lost  no  time  in  making 
ready  for  his  journey.  In  an  incred 
ibly  short  time  after  this  chance  inter 
view,  he  was  hurrying  out  of  the  city, 
borne  by  a  sturdy  pony.  His  heart 
was  in  this  search.  He  felt,  in  setting 
out,  that  sense  of  elevation  that  ac 
companies  any  unselfish  action.  True 
he  was  interested  to  secure  the  con 
fession  of  "Shocky,"  but,  to  his  credit 
be  it  said,  the  ruling  motive  was  the 
desire  to  find  and  help  the  detective. 

In  accordance  with  the  vague  direc 
tions  of  his  informant,  he  took  his 
journey  to  the  southwest.  But  to 


268        In  White  and  Black. 

start  is  one  thing",  and,  in  this  region 
of  prairies  that  all  look  alike  and 
roads  that  are  not  roads,  to  find  your 
way  is  quite  another.  Before  night, 
Lawrance  had  found  himself  far  off 
his  track  many  times.  When  he  had 
been  told  to  "take  the  plainest  way," 
he  often  found  that  he  had  only  suc 
ceeded  in  taking"  the  newest  way,  and 
after  riding  ten  miles,  without  seeing-  a 
human  being1,  would  suddenly  come 
upon  a  ranch,  and  find  that  he  must 
retrace  his  steps.  By  this  process  he 
made  slow  headway,  and  was  worn 
out  and  discouraged  the  first  day. 
The  distance  often  covered  without 
seeing1  a  house  was  another  discour 
agement,  and  he  had  to  ride  far  into 
the  night  to  find  a  resting-place.  This 
day's  experience  was  repeated  with 
some  variations,  and  new  and  graver 
difficulties  thrown  in,  enough  to  ut 
terly  discourage  any  but  the  most 
resolute,  particularly  when  there  was 
so  much  indefiniteness  of  information 
on  which  to  proceed.  A  week  had 
passed  before  he  reached  the  region 
where  the  detective  was  last  supposed 


Trail  and  Counter-  Trail.      269 

to  have  been  seen.  It  was  a  mere  vil 
lage,  a  sort  of  centre  of  supplies  for 
ranches,  made  up  mostly  of  saloons 
and  a  post-office. 

After  much  inquiry,  Lawrance  made 
himself  tolerably  certain  that  the  de 
tective  had  taken  the  stage  at  this 
point,  after  being  left  by  his  compan 
ions  while  lying  sick  in  the  only  hotel 
in  the  village.  To  this  he  had  secured 
access  by  his  weakly  appearance  and 
plausible  manner.  He  had  left  there 
a  few  days  after  by  stage,  but  for  what 
point  no  one  knew.  It  was  supposed  he 
was  making  his  way  to  San  Antonio. 
In  hope  of  more  definite  information, 
he  waited  for  the  stage,  which  made  a 
weekly  trip.  This  delayed  him  an 
other  three  days.  When  it  came, 
there  was  a  new  driver  who  could 
give  no  information  whatever.  Law 
rance  only  grew  in  his  determination 
as  the  difficulties  thickened.  He  felt 
more  and  more  that  he  must  succeed. 
So  he  set  out,  with  the  purpose  to  in 
quire  at  every  possible  place  along  the 
way.  At  the  end  of  the  first  day's  jour 
ney,  no  discoveries  had  been  made. 


In  White  and  Black. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  following 
day,  there  fell  one  of  those  floods 
of  rain  that  autumn  so  frequently 
brings  to  this  region.  Streams 
whose  beds  had  been  dry  an  hour  be 
fore  began  to  fill  and  became  raging 
torrents,  sweeping  everything  bef.ore 
them.  Lawrance  was  far  from  any 
habitation  when  this  storm  arose.  He 
soon  saw  by  a  line  of  trees  in  the  dis 
tance,  as  he  slowly  made  his  way 
through  the  clinging  black  mud  of  the 
prairie,  that  he  was  nearing  a  stream. 
When  he  came  to  its  banks,  it  pre 
sented  a  threatening  aspect.  With  a 
deafening  roar  it  swept  its  murky 
current  between  full  banks.  It  was 
enough  to  deter  one  with  a  stouter 
heart  than  Lawrance  possessed,  but 
somehow  his  old  irresolution  had  for 
saken  him.  The  purpose  before  him 
had  called  up  all  the  strength  of  will 
of  which  he  was  capable.  Indeed,  he 
found  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  the! 
dangers  and  sacrifices  attending  this 
search.  Difficulties  were  not  to  be 
thought  of,  dangers  not  to  be  reck 
oned  with.  Plunging  the  spurs  into 


Trail  and  Counter-Trail.      271 

the  flanks  of  the  rebellious  pony,  he 
forced  him  into  the  boiling  flood.  It 
was  only  for  a  brief  space  that  the 
pony  could  maintain  his  footing.  To 
swim  across  that  current  was  impossi 
ble;  to  swim  with  it  was  only  a  de 
gree  less  difficult.  The  pony  battled 
bravely,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Horse 
and  rider  were  at  the  mercy  of  the 
angry  current.  Lawrance  saw  above 
the  swirling  flood  that  now  and  then 
engulfed  him,  a  man  on  the  opposite 
bank  from  where  he  entered  striving 
to  keep  pace  with  him  as  he  was 
whirled  down  the  stream.  That  was 
the  last  he  knew.  He  was  clinging  to 
the  neck  of  the  horse,  choked  by  the 
waters,  in  his  ears  the  voice  of  a  thou 
sand  thunders,  something  struck  him 
with  fearful  force,  his  hold  gave  way, 
and  he  was  only  half  conscious  of  a 
last  frantic  struggle,  an  effort  to  cry 
for  help,  a  swift  vision  of  the  past,  and 
then — oblivion. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IN   SEARCH   OF   HEALTH. 

On  the  banks  of  the  San  Antonio 
river,  which  flows  or  rather  winds 
serpent-like  through  the  quaint  old 
city  that  bears  its  name,  there  stands  a 
spacious  and  beautiful  home.  '  The 
house  sets  well  back  from  the  street  in 
a  grove  of  pecan-trees,  which  are 
draped  with  graceful  festoons  of  sway 
ing  moss.  The  river  makes  one  of  its 
sudden  turns  at  this  point,  and  so  is 
visible  from  the  rear  and  two  sides 
of  the  house,  and  even  from  the  great 
porch  on  the  front  its  gleaming  cur 
rent  can  be  seen  gracefully  turning 
the  point  above.  On  its  banks,  cala- 
diums,  bananas  and  waving  rushes 
grow  in  great  abundance  and  give  a 
tropical  appearance  to  the  scene.  The 
large  yard  is  covered  with  grass  still 
green  and  fresh,  though  November 
has  already  put  his  coating  of  sober 

273 


In  Search  of  Health.         273 

brown  on  more  northern  latitudes.  A 
Marechal  Neil  rose  clambers  the  en 
tire  width  of  the  front  porch  and  is 
still  enwreathed  with  a  perfect  wealth 
of  this  queen  of  roses.  A  row  of 
chrysanthemums  on  either  side  of  the 
walk  is  arrayed  in  a  gorgeous  variety 
of  color. 

Surely  this  is  a  place  to  lose  one's 
care  and  dream  sweet  dreams.  The 
air  is  soft  and  balmy  and  seems  to 
rush  with  delicious  freedom  into  the  ex 
panding  lungs.  It  is  neither  too  warm 
for  comfort  nor  too  cool  for  outdoor 
delight  and  is  never  still  nor  silent, 
but  sings  of  health  as  it  flies  over  end 
less  stretches  of  prairie  on  wings  still 
redolent  of  gambols  with  the  crested 
billows  of  the  Gulf.  The  sky  is  high 
and  soft  and  of  deepest  blue,  with  that 
peculiar  welcome  to  the  upward  look 
that  seems  to  permit  the  rejoicing  eye 
to  penetrate  its  depths  and  rest  in  its 
hospitable  bosom.  It  is  that  most 
soothing  hour  of  twilight,  and  on  the 
front  porch  of  this  home  are  four  peo 
ple,  two  old  people  and  two  young 
ladies,  and  sitting  by  choice  and  by 


274        In  White  and  Black. 

courtesy  on  the  steps  another  whom 
we  shall  soon  recognize.  The  conver 
sation  is  concerning  the  city  in  which 
we  find  them. 

"And  so  you  already  confess  that 
San  Antonio  is  a  great  deal  nicer  place 
than  your  slow-going  Vandalia,  eh?'' 
This  was  spoken  by  the  old  gentle 
man  to  the  individual  on  the  steps. 
The  latter  promptly  replied: 

"Dis  pow'ful  nice,  sho;  1  boun'  say 
dat,  but,  laws-a-massy,  what  you  gwin' 
say  fur  dese  mud  huts  settin'  squar  on 
de  street  wid  no  mo'  ya'd  dan  er  tater- 
celler,  an'  so  low  yo'  kin  mi'nigh  salt 
yo'  cows  on  de  ruff?  Stop  do',  I  furgit 
de  cows'  hawns  so  long  dey  cain't  git 
thoo  de  streets,  ef  you  call  'em  streets, 
'bout  ez  wide  ez  er  pig-path  and  ez 
crooked  ez  er  fishin'-worm  wid  er  bad 
case  er  de  colic.  You  come  to  Van- 
dalia,  an'  we  show  you  streets  what's 
got  room  ter  git  a  good  bref  in.  Den 
you  got  de  mos'  onsplainable  people 
here  I  ebber  see  in  all  my  bawn  days. 
Dey  ain't  black,  an'  dey  ain't  yaller, 
an'  dey  ain'  white,  but  sorter  'twixt  an' 
'tween.  Dey  hats  look  like  er  fodder 


In  Search  of  Health.         275 

stack;  dey  ties  dey  red  bandanner 
roun'  dey  wais'  stid  er  roun'  dey  head 
lak  er  sensible  pusson,  an'  dey  cyar'  er 
kiverlid  roun'  dey  shoulders,  des  lak 
dey  dun  an'  got  outer  bed  an*  furgit 
ter  leab  de  kiver.  Dey  don'  know 
nuthin',  kase  dey  won'  answer  er  de 
cent  pusson's  question,  but  dey  shake 
dey  haid  an'  mutter  sump'n'  am'  got 
no  sense  in  it." 

The  reader  has  recognized  the  fa 
miliar  speech  of  Aunt  Lylie,  for  it  is 
none  other.  Those  four  on  the  porch 
are  Capt.  and  Mrs.  Melton,  Dora's 
uncle  and  aunt,  Amelia  Bramwell  and 
Dora  herself.  These  friends  of  ours 
have  found  their  way  to  this  far  city  of 
the  Southwest  by  a  very  natural  chain 
of  circumstances.  Dora's  need  of 
change  for  health's  sake,  the  fame  of 
this  climate,  and  the  residence  of  her 
uncle  in  this  city  explain  it.  Dora  suc 
ceeded  in  persuading  her  friend  to  ac 
company  her,  and  Aunt  Lylie  would  ». 
not  hear  to  being  left  behind.  They 
found  a  warm  welcome  and  a  delight 
ful  home. 


In  White  and  Black. 

The  young  ladies  found  a  charming 
novelty  in  their  surroundings,  which 
Capt.  Melton  never  tired  of  dilating 
upon  and  enhancing  with  incident  and 
history  as  he  drove  them  from  point 
to  point.  They  spent  much  time  loit 
ering  along  the  banks  of  the  river, 
lulled  almost  in  spite  of  themselves 
into  f  orgetf ulness  of  care.  Even  Aunt 
Lylie  was  deeply  impressed,  but  she 
would  not  give  way  to  enthusiasm. 
She  was  not  altogether  pleased  with 
the  unbounded  pleasure  of  the  young 
ladies.  It  did  not  sound  to  her  patri 
otic  ears  altogether  loyal  to  Vandalia. 
With  her  it  was  Vandalia,  then 
Heaven,  with  no  intermediate  stages. 
Going  upward,  the  celestial  city  was 
the  next  and  only  one  on  that  side; 
the  rest  of  the  habitable  universe  lay 
below  in  various  downward  degrees. 
Many  a  good-natured  tilt  did  she  and 
Capt.  Melton  have  on  the  merits  of 
the  two  cities,  much  to  his  amuse 
ment,  for  it  afforded  a  fine  opportunity 
to  test  the  flavor  of  the  old  negro's 
peculiar  wit. 


In  Search  of  Health.         277 

Capt.  Melton  owned  a  large  cattle- 
ranch  about  forty  miles  west  of  the 
city,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  very  short 
distance  in  that  country,  where  space 
is  peculiarly  lavish  of  room.  His 
only  son,  whom  he  called  Jack,  at 
tended  to  the  ranch,  and  the  father 
now  and  then  paid  him  a  visit,  going 
out  with  supplies  in  a  large  covered 
hack  kept  for  the  purpose.  He  enter 
tained  his  visitors  with  many  graphic 
stories  of  ranch  life,  which  filled  their 
minds  with  pictures  of  a  calling  pre 
senting  a  lively  contrast  to  their  cot 
ton  and  corn  culture  at  home.  They 
longed  to  see  this  strange  world  with 
their  own  eyes,  and  were  promised  a 
visit  to  Capt.  Melton's  ranch,  much  to 
their  delight  Their  life  here  was  all 
that  could  be  desired,  and  the  days 
sped  by  with  quick  and  lithesome 
tread,  leaving  behind  a  growing 
strength  and  cheer.  Young  hearts 
are  easily  wooed  by  strange  skies 
and  give  ready  and  hearty  response 
to  the  charm  of  novelty.  The  process 
of  healing  is  slower  for  hearts  than 
for  bodies;  but,  nevertheless,  time  and 


In  White  and  Black. 

change  work  wonders  even  in  the  cure 
of  those  ailments  that  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  physic.  Both  these  bruised 
hearts  began  to  heal,  and  the  sunshine 
of  hope  began  to  break  through  the 
clouds  and  spread  itself  over  their 
lives. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  LONE  GRAVE  BY  THE  WAYSIDE. 

"Be  up  early  to-morrow  and  in 
readiness  to  start  betimes,  for  it  is  a 
long  drive  you  are  to  take,"  said  Capt. 
Melton,  the  evening  before  the  trip  to 
the  ranch,  "that  is,  unless  you  want  to 
camp  out  at  night." 

"Oh,  wouldn't  that  be  fine!  By  all 
means,  let's  camp  out.  What  say  you, 
Amelia?"  And  Dora  fairly  clapped 
her  hands  with  delight  at  the  idea. 

"I  haven't  as  much  fancy  for  nov 
elty  as  you  have,  my  dear,  and  am 
not  sure  that  sleeping  under  the  open 
sky  is  an  experiment  one  would  go  a 
thousand  miles  to  seek.  I  have  a 
great  liking  for  houses,  but  I  confess 
this  once  I  am  not  averse  to  this 
project.  But  perhaps  Capt.  Melton 
would  not  approve." 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  Miss  Amelia," 
said  Capt.  Melton,  "nothing  would  be 

S70 


28o        In  White  and  Black. 

more  to  my  mind,  and  had  I  imagined 
it  would  please,  I  should  have  pro 
posed  it  at  once." 

"It  would  be  such  an  experience  to 
tell  when  we  get  back  home,  and  then, 
for  my  part,  I  have  a  natural  fondness 
for  the  company  of  the  stars,"  said 
Dora. 

"But  perhaps  Aunt  Lylie  would  not 
agree,"  saidCapt.  Melton,  turning  to 
wards  that  worthy  personage  as  he 
spoke.  She  had  been  listening  to  the 
conversation  with  every  indication  of 
the  most  eager  interest, but  she  had  not 
comprehended  a  word,  except  in  the 
vaguest  sort  of  way.  She  was  watch 
ing  the  dawning  light  on  Dora's  face, 
and  hailing  the  new  enthusiasm,  which 
was  a  sign  to  her  that  the  old  life  was 
returning.  She  was  like  one  worn 
out  with  watching  for  the  return  of  a 
ship  that  has  been  long  at  sea  when 
the  home-coming  sail  is  first  sighted. 
Had  one  listened  closely,he  mighthave 
heard  a  whispered  "bless  de  Lawd." 

"Whut  you  'sputin'  'bout,  Mars' 
Cap'in?  I's  gittin'  so  ole  I  dun  an' 
fergit  ter  tek  notice." 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside.  281 

"We  weren't  disputing,  Aunt  Lylie, 
but  just  deciding  whether  or  not  we 
should  camp  out  to-morrow  night.  The 
young  ladies  are  willing  if  you  are.'' 

"Well,  I  don'  'zac'ly  know.  I  ain' 
no  hand  ter  be  projickin'  wid  sich. 
Who's  gwin'  keep  off  dem  kyutuses  I 
been  hear  you  tell  'bout?" 

"You  need  have  no  fears  of  the 
coyotes,"  replied  Capt.  Melton,  striv 
ing  to  keep  a  straight  face  despite 
Aunt  Lylie's  grotesque  pronunciation 
of  the  name  of  the  wild  dog  of  the 
Texas  prairie.  "They  always  make 
such  a  hideous  noise  before  they  attack 
you  that  you  have  a  chance  to  get  out 
of  the  way.  When  you  hear  them, 
you  have  only  to  climb  a  tree,  and  re 
main  till  they  go  away." 

"How's  er  ole  body  lak'  me  gwine 
clim'  er  tree?  I  ain'  nuver  done  dat 
when  I's  young.  I'm  jes'  ez  good  ez 
cotch  now,  ef  dat's  de  game." 

By  a  little  coaxing  and  argument 
Aunt  Lylie  was  somewhat  reassured, 
and  agreed  to  take  the  risk  for  Dora's 
sake;  and  so  it  was  settled  they  would 
dine  at  home  and  then  start  for  a 


282        In  White  and  Black. 

point  about  midway  between  the  home 
and  the  ranch. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  the  hack 
drew  up  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
Capt.  Melton,  Amelia,  Dora,  and 
Aunt  Lylie  climbed  in  and  were 
whirled  away  in  high  expectation  of  a 
pleasant  drive.  The  air  was  bracing 
and  the  sky  without  a  cloud.  Drawn 
by  a  pair  of  spirited  ponies  to  whose 
nimble  feet  space  seemed  merely  a 
plaything,  they  sped  across  the  prairie. 
There  was  not  much  to  break  the  mo 
notony  of  the  journey;  only  once  or 
twice  a  deer  bounded  across  the  road, 
if  road  the  track  across  the  level  prai 
rie  could  be  called.  Then  Dora  lost 
herself  in  excitement  and  showed 
some  of  her  old-time  girlish  enthu 
siasm. 

At  twilight  they  found  water  for 
their  ponies  and  struck  camp  for  the 
night.  It  was  the  work  of  a  few  min 
utes  to  hobble  the  horses,  gather  some 
sticks,  kindle  a  fire  and  make  a  pot  of 
coffee  for  their  supper  with  water  that 
was  all  the  better  for  being  boiled  and 
flavored  with  coffee. 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside.  283 

The  firelight  on  the  glistening  foliage 
of  the  live-oaks,  the  silent  silver  of  the 
stars  in  acloudless  sky,  the  monotone  of 
the  winds  that  in  these  parts  are  never 
weary,  the  endless  sweep  of  level 
prairie,  constituted  a  combination  that 
would  have  charmed  less  vivid  imagi 
nations  than  theirs.  Capt.  Melton 
had  taken  pains  to  work  on  this  pre 
dominating  faculty  of  Aunt  Lylie  by 
exciting  tales  of  life  in  camp  and  ad 
ventures  with  wolves,  Indians,  and  the 
like,  to  which  she  listened  with  wide- 
eyed  credulity.  By  bedtime  she  was 
excited  beyond  the  possibility  of  sleep. 
It  was  arranged  that  Dora  and  Amelia 
should  sleep  in  the  hack,  Aunt  Lylie 
under  it,  while  Capt.  Melton  simply 
lay  down  on  the  grass. 

By  the  time  talking  had  ceased  a 
great  owl  in  a  tree  near  by  smote  the 
surrounding  silence  with  a  vigorous 
and  hair-lifting  hoo-hoo!  This  was 
too  much  for  Aunt  Ly lie's  already  ex 
cited  nerves,  and  she  started  up,  ex 
claiming:  "What  in  de  nameer  good 
ness  is  dat,  Mars  Cap'in?  For  de 
Lawd's  sake,  jes'  lis'en  at  'im/' 


284        In  White  and  Black. 

When  it  was  explained,  she  en 
joyed  the  laugh  with  them,  but  main 
tained  that  "he  mus'  er  got  'is  onuthly 
voice  f'um  ole  Nick  hisse'f."  They 
had  not  yet  fallen  asleep  when  a  huge 
bull  began  to  bellow  not  far  away,  the 
low  rumble  of  his  challenge  sounding 
like  the  roar  of  distant  thunder  and 
ending  with  the  combination  of  an  ex 
aggerated  scream  and  an  overgrown 
sob.  Aunt  Lylie  sat  up  and  held  her 
breath.  At  the  next  trumpet-blast  from 
this  monarch  of  the  prairie,  that  went 
careering  through  space  like  the  trump 
of  doom  (which  indeed  it  was  to  her), 
she  straightened  up,  almost  lifting  the 
hack  from  the  ground,  exclaiming: 

"Is  you-all  gwine  lie  still  when  ole 
Nick  hisse'f  a-comin'  arter  you." 

The  burst  of  merriment  that  greeted 
her  ears  was  reassuring,  for  it  led  her 
to  hope  they  might  come  out  of  this 
alive.  But  still  she  mentally  vowed 
and  orally  declared  that  she  would 
never  again  "git  cotch  in  no  sich  non- 
sensible  fix,  fur,"  said  she,  "I  ain't 
been  brung  up  to  no  sich,"  No 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside.  285 

amount  of  bantering  or  coaxing  could 
bring"  her  to  lie  down  again.  She  sat 
by  the  hack  and  kept  sleepless  watch 
for  the  next  danger.  It  was  late  in 
the  night  when  it  came.  If  the  reader 
has  never  heard  the  rallying  cry  of  a 
pack  of  coyotes,  the  writer  can  give 
him  no  idea  of  the  blood-curdling 
chorus  that  breaks  out  suddenly  like 
pandemonium  run  mad,  shrill  staccato, 
tremolo,  crescendo,  as  if  the  throats 
of  a  thousand  demons  were  clamoring 
for  blood.  The  coyote  is  a  ventrilo 
quist;  he  always  seems  a  great  deal 
nearer  than  he  is. 

In  a  twinkling,  Aunt  Lylie  was  in 
the  hack,  crying:  "Laws-a-massy, 
honey,  dis  ain'  no  place  fur  usl  Don' 
you  hear?  Lan'  sake,  jis  lis'en  at  datl 
Hit's  dem  kyutuses  huntin'  bones  ter 
pick,  an'  here's  one  ain'  gwine  set  still 
an'  'vite  'em  ter  come  an'  hep  dey- 
se'ves.  I  wish  I's  in  Vandalia,  whar 
dey  ain'  no  sich  onuthly  varmints,  dat 
I  doesl"  This  time  she  was  still 
harder  to  pacify.  Shades  of  Houston 
Travis  and  the  restl  Had  those 


286         In  White  and  Black. 

worthies  heard  the  abuse  heaped  on 
Texas  by  her  tongue,  made  eloquent 
by  fear,  they  would  have  felt  it  was  a 
country  not  worth  fighting  for.  The 
'consequence  was  that  our  party  did 
not  get  much  sleep,  but  had  an  im-| 
mense  deal  of  fun,  which  compensated 
them,  and  on  the  whole  the  camping 
episode  was  voted  a  great  success,  not 
unanimously,  however,  for  Aunt  Lylie 
declared  it  was  fit  only  for  wild  In 
dians.  As  between  "ole  Nick"  and 
"dem  kyutuses"  there  was  not  much 
choice,  and  she  was  morally  certain 
that  a  camper  in  Texas  was  not  left 
to  that  choice  even,  for  both  might 
pounce  upon  him  at  any  moment. 

They  reached  the  ranch  about  noon. 
Everything  was  in  readiness  to  receive 
them.  The  comfortable,  capacious, 
one-story  house  was  neatly  kept  by  a 
brisk  Mexican  woman,  who  had  put 
every  nook  and  corner  at  its  best  in ! 
honor  of  the  expected  guests. 

"Cousin  Jack"  was  not  by  far  the 
Bohemian  they  had  expected  to  see. 
So  far  from  being  the  roistering  sav- 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside. 

age  that  the  cowboy  is  represented  as 
being  in  literature,  he  was  a  gentleman 
in  leather  overalls  as  truly  as  ever 
wore  shining  broadcloth.  He  could 
rope  a  steer  or  grace  a  drawing-room 
with  equal  ease,  He  soon  showed 
himself  a  capable  host,  accommodat 
ing  himself  to  the  whims  and  fancies 
of  his  guests,  and  divining  what  would 
contribute  to  their  pleasure  with  a  tact 
born  of  a  generous  desire  to  please. 
With  this  good-natured,  keen-witted, 
handsome  cavalier  of  the  pastures,  the 
young  ladies  were  soon  on  the  best  of 
terms,  and  the  time  passed  delightfully 
in  strolling  about  the  place,  reading, 
and  especially  in  horseback-riding1. 
For  this  latter  exercise  there  was 
abundance  of  space  in  the  pasture  of 
seventy  thousand  acres,  and  plenty  of 
horses,  and,  we  may  also  add,  liberal 
inclination  on  the  part  of  the  guests 
and  host. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day 
after  their  arrival,  as  they  were  hav 
ing  their  accustomed  gallop,  Jack  sud 
denly  reigned  in  his  horse,  and  bid 
ding  them  wait  till  he  returned,  rode 


288        In  White  and  Black. 

off  toward  a  huge  steer  that  lifted  his 
wide  horns  warily  two  hundred  yards 
away.  Jack  unloosed  his  lariat  as  he 
rode.  The  steer  was  away  with  a  de 
fiant  toss  of  his  head  before  half  the 
distance  had  been  covered,  and  went 
tearing  across  the  prairie  like  a  deer. 
Jack  touched  his  pony  with  the  spur 
and  that  animal  needed  no  second 
warning,  but  seeing  the  game  was  up, 
leaped  to  the  chase  like  an  unleashed 
greyhound.  Throwing  his  nose 
straight  out,  and  giving  every  muscle 
to  the  chase,  he  sped  over  the  bosom 
of  the  grass-grown  prairie  like  a  swal 
low.  Gradually  the  space  between 
horse  and  steer  was  diminishing,  when 
with  keen  instinct,  the  steer  tore  like  a 
tornado  through  a  chapparal  thicket 
where  it  was  impossible  for  any  horse 
man  to  follow.  The  horse,  apparently 
without  the  use  of  the  rein,  circled 
round  the  obstruction  without  break 
ing  his  speed.  The  steer,  instead  of 
passing  though  the  bushes  to  the  op 
posite  side,  turned  and  came  out  at 
right  angles  from  where  he  entered 
and  then  turned  back  on  his  track. 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside.  289 

By  the  time  Jack  had  made  the  cir 
cuit,  a  considerable  distance  had  been 
put  between  him  and  the  brute,  by  this 
time  mad  witt?  fright  and  fury.  As  he 
turned  into  a  straight  run  for  his  game, 
the  horse  seemed  to  gather  up  and 
throw  all  his  energies  into  the  chase, 
and  his  rider  partook  of  his  spirit,  as 
he  leaned  far  forward  and  gave  him 
the  spur.  The  space  lessened.  The 
horse  with  great  leaps  seems  to  be  al 
ready  rejoicing  in  his  triumph,  and 
now  the  lasso  is  in  the  air,  and  is  cut 
ting  swift  circles  above  Jack's  head. 
Now  the  opportune  moment  has  come, 
and  rising  in  his  stirrups,  Jack  hurls 
the  lasso  through  the  air.  The  aim  is 
true,  it  has  caught,  the  rope  tightens, 
a  few  short  leaps  and  the  horse  comes 
to  a  standstill,  with  feet  planted  firm 
in  front.  The  great  brute  stumbles, 
is  down.  Quick  as  thought,  Jack  leaps 
to  the  ground,  rushes  upon  his  prey 
with  another  rope,  and  in  an  incon 
ceivably  short  time  the  steer  is  help 
lessly  bound. 

The  two  women  had  not  spoken  one 
word  during  this  exciting  chase.  Only 


In  White  and  Black. 

when  it  was  safely  over,  Amelia  said, 
"How  daring  he  is/'  with  a  tremor  of 
admiration  in  her  voice. 

As  Jack  galloped  to  their  side,  he 
said  simply,  "That  fellow  escaped  us 
at  the  round-up,  and  now  he  must 
wait  for  the  men  to  come  and  take  him 
in.  But  had  I  missed  my  aim,  you 
would  have  been  in  danger,  as  he  was 
coming  directly  this  way."  They 
scolded  him  a  little  for  his  reckless 
ness,  and  praised  him  a  good  deal  for 
his  courage  and  skill,  and  he  must 
have  been  either  less  or  more  than  hu 
man  if  he  had  not  expected  and  en 
joyed  both. 

They  rode  on  towards  the  west,  Dora 
leading  the  way  in  a  smart  gallop,  her 
cousin  and  Amelia  bringing  up  the 
rear.  These  latter  appeared  to  find  in 
each  other  agreeable  companionship. 
Dora  came  upon  a  gate  and  of  neces 
sity  waited  for  the  others  to  come  up. 
She  was  told  they  had  reached  the 
limit  of  her  uncle's  ranch.  On  a  rise 
a  half-mile  away  they  could  see  a 
house  which  belonged  to  an  old  Ger 
man  who  owned  the  adjoining  ranch. 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside.  291 

Dora  insisted  on  riding  that  far.  She 
was  enjoying  the  freedom,  the  move 
ment,  the  sunlight,  the  scenery. 
i  Just  before  reaching  the  house, 
•  Dora,  still  a  short  way  ahead,  saw  to 
the  right  of  the  road,  amid  a  group  of 
live-oaks,  a  new  grave.  Her  quick 
sympathies  and  lively  imagination 
drew  her  to  the  spot.  The  two  saw 
her  leap  from  her  pony,  and  when 
they  reached  her  side,  she  was  kneel 
ing  on  the  fresh  dirt  with  her  hands 
tightly  clasped,  her  cheeks  pale,  her 
lips  compressed,  gazing  at  a  name  cut 
in  rude  letters  on  the  wooden  board 
at  the  head.  They  looked  and  read 
"L.  Kenyon."  Amelia  understood, 
and  kneeling  by  Dora's  side  placed 
an  arm  gently  round  her  and  spoke 
no  word,  but  only  sobbed.  Then  re 
sponsive  tears  stole  down  Dora's 
cheeks. 

The  cousin,  touched  by  the  scene 
and  silenced  by  the  mystery  and  pa- _ 
thos  of  it,  moved  aside  and  with  a  fine 
instinct  of  propriety  busied  himself 
with  the  horses.  When  they  arose 
Dora  was  almost  calm.  Amelia  was 


292        In  White  and  Black. 

silent,  for  it  was  not  an  occasion  for 
speech.  Dora  said,  "Let  us  go  yon 
der,"  pointing  to  the  house.  She  and 
Amelia  went  arm  in  arm,  while  Jack 
followed,  wondering  what  it  all  meant. 
They  found  only  an  elderly  German 
woman.  She  was  kind.  She  bustled 
about  with  every  possible  show  of 
courtesy.  She  and  her  husband  lived 
a  secluded  life,  and  she  barely  knew 
Jack  Melton  by  sight. 

None  of  the  visitors  spoke  German, 
and  she  not  a  word  of  English.  They 
managed  to  make  her  understand 
they  were  interested  in  the  new  grave. 
She  produced  an  envelope  on  which 
the  name  "Lawrance  Kenyon,  San 
Antonio,  Texas,"  was  written.  This, 
she  led  them  to  understand,  was  all 
they  had  found  on  his  person.  This 
they  were  cheerfully  permitted  to  keep. 

Dora  was  eager  to  see  what  the  con 
tents  might  be  and  she  opened  it  at 
once.  It  contained  a  legal  paper,  which 
proved  to  be  a  confession  of  the  burn 
ing  of  the  store  of  Melton  and  Ford. 
Dora's  burden  was  lifted  when  she 
saw  it  was  the  confession  of  another 


A  Lone  Grave  by  the  Wayside.  293 

to  the  crime  with  which  her  lover  was 
charged.  This  was  a  joy  to  her  in  the 
midst  of  her  grief. 

After  the  first  paroxysm  of  grief,  and 
the  revelation  contained  in  the  papers, 
Dora  dried  her  tears  and  took  leave  of 
the  place.  Pausing  at  the  grave,  she 
laid  on  it  a  sprig  of  evergreen  that  she 
had  worn  on  her  bosom  and  said  to 
Amelia,  "Tell  Cousin  Jack,"  then 
mounted  and  rode  away.  Only  a  brief 
fragmentary  explanation  had  been 
made  to  Jack  at  the  cottage. 

As  they  rode  homeward,  Amelia 
told  Jack  the  story.  She  did  not  make 
it  clear  as  to  Lawrance's  leaving  Van- 
dalia.  It  was  not  clear  to  her.  She 
had  not  known  the  part  Roswell  had 
played.  What  Jack  said  to  her  it  is 
not  our  business  to  know,  but  we  can 
easily  believe  it  is  a  dangerous  thing 
to  have  another's  love-story  told  you 
by  a  lovely  young  woman  as  you  ride 
across  broad  prairies  through  the  slant 
sun  into  the  twilight. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

LASSO  CONTENDS  WITH  FLOOD. 

The  lasso,  that  much  underrated  in 
strument  of  Western  civilization, 
sometimes  figures  in  a  much  higher 
capacity  than  mere  herding-  of  cattle. 
When  the  cowboy,  like  the  ancient 
shepherd  boy,  learns  to  put  faith  in 
the  instrument  with  which  he  is  most 
expert,  he  has  learned  a  lesson  of  rare 
wisdom.  Then  a  lasso  may  save  a 
life,  as  a  sling  once  saved  a  nation. 
When  Lawrance  was  swept  from  his 
saddle  in  the  swollen  river,  the  man 
we  saw  on  the  shore  was  awaiting  his 
opportunity.  When  the  frantic  hand 
was  uplifted  for  a  brief  moment,  as  if 
to  seize  the  sweet  light,  like  the  leap  of 
the  lightning  the  obedient  rope  flew 
to  its  mark  and  caught  Lawrance  by 
the  wrist.  When  he  came  back  to 
consciousness,  he  found  himself  lying 
on  a  pallet,  under  a  huge  live-oak,  sur- 

394 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood. 

rounded  by  half  a  dozen  cowboys,  as 
many  ponies,  a  few  dogs,  and  the 
simple  furnishings  of  a  camp  on  the 
prairie. 

His  first  awakening  was  to  the  sound 
of  a  familiar  song.  The  voice  of  a 
man  was  singing  "Nearer,  my  God, 
to  Thee,"  and  there  was  peculiar 
sweetness  in  the  strains  as  they  stole 
out  on  the  evening  air.  No  cathedral 
choir  ever  chanted  such  harmonies  as 
the  ear  of  Lawrance  found  in  the  un 
skilled  singing  of  that  cowboy.  Back 
to  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  back  to 
home  and  mother,  to  the  hiss  and 
crackle  of  the  pine-wood  fire  and  the 
shadows  dancing  on  the  wall,  to  the 
blossoming  meadow  in  springtime 
and  the  days  of  a  guileless  heart 
whereon  were  no  scars,  was  he 
borne  on  the  wings  of  the  song. 
He  scarcely  knew  whether  he  was 
dead  or  alive.  Looking  up  he  saw  the 
huge  branches  of  the  live-oak  swaying 
in  the  breeze  that  freshened  from  the 
gulf,  and  through  them  gleamed  the 
first  faint  stars  like  so  many  signals  of 
peace.  Then  he  knew  he  lived  in  the 


296         In  White  and  Black. 

flesh.  Had  this  not  been  sufficient,  he 
would  have  been  convinced  beyond 
all  conjecture  that  he  was  not  yet 
among  the  celestial  inhabitants,  for 
the  singer  was  greeted  by  language 
such  as  angels  are  not  supposed  to 
use.  It  was  evident  they  were  not  a 
unit  on  the  subject  of  sacred  things. 

"Say,  bud,  give  us  a  rest."  "Will 
mamma's  boy  let  up?"  "Say,  if  you 
don't  shut  up  that  music-box,  I'll  break 
it,  pardner."  "Whar's  yer  text,  par 
son?"  But  the  singing  continued  till 
one  of  the  boys,  slipping  up  behind 
the  singer,  poured  part  of  the  contents 
of  a  bucket  of  water  on  his  head,  in 
mock  baptism  of  the  "singing  Meth 
odist." 

This  was  greeted  with  a  roar  of 
laughter.  Then,  as  the  youth  quietly 
wiped  the  water  from  his  face  without 
any  show  of  resentment,  the  rest 
seemed  to  relent.  "Tim,  I  be  blamed 
ef  that  ain't  a  shame,"  said  one  to  the 
man  who  had  perpetrated  the  joke, 
"an'  ef  it  was  me  I'd  knock  the  fillin' 
out  of  you."  Then  turning  to  the 
aggrieved  boy,  the  same  speaker  said: 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood. 

"Bob,  why  in  the  deuce  didn't  you 
knock  him  into  the  middle  of  next 
week?" 

There  was  no  response  to  this,  but 
the  guying  went  on.  At  length  the 
youth  found  his  speech.  It  was  calm 
and  gentle.  There  was  not  a  touch  of 
anger  or  impatience  in  it.  But  it  was 
manly  and  compelled  attention.  He 
said,  "Boys,  I  don't  believe  you  think 
I'm  afraid,  or  that  if  any  of  you  were  in 
danger  I  should  be  wanting,  but  I  am 
not  going  to  fight  nor  quarrel,  for  bet 
ter  reason  than  fear.  Besides,  I  do  not 
wonder  that  you  laugh  at  me.  It  is  what 
I  ought  to  expect.  It  is  what  I  have 
done  many  a  time  myself,  for  I  did 
not  understand.  When  I  understood, 
I  quit  ridiculing;  when  you  understand, 
you  will  quit.  I  once  saw  some  boys 
laugh  at  another  for  crying,  because 
they  thought  it  was  for  the  loss  of  a 
top  or  ball.  But  when  he  told  them 
his  mother  had  just  died,  they  cried 
with  him.  You  laugh  at  me  when  I 
sing,  because  you  do  not  know  what 
makes  me  sing.  You  think  it  strange 
I  do  not  fight,  because  you  do  not 


298         In  White  and  Black. 

know  what  keeps  me  from  fighting. 
That  is  why  I  say  you  do  not  under 
stand.     I  was  not  thinking-  of  you  at 
all  as  I  sang,  but  my  mind  was  back 
at  home.    On  a  maple-crowned  hill 
far  away  there  is  a  sacred  spot.     It  is 
a  family  burying-ground.     My  mother 
sleeps  there.      My  father  and   older 
brother  went  to  the  war.    They  never 
came  back.     My  mother  survived  till 
one  year  ago  to-day.     Before  she  died 
she  called  me  to  her  and  said,  'Robert, 
God  has  spared  me  to  see  you  almost 
a  man.     Now  I  am  going.    The  only 
legacy  I  have  to  leave  you  is  my  bless 
ing  and  my  prayers.     Live  to  deserve 
the  respect  of  your  fellow  man,  but  do 
not  despair  if  they  despise  you.    You 
go  out  into  the  world  to  win  your  way. 
I  can  not  go  with  you,  but  God  will. 
The  only  thing  you  have  to  fear  is  the 
thing  that  will  offend  Him.'    And  then 
she  was  still.     I  went  out  among  the 
shadows.    The  stars  were  coming  out. 
Their  light  was  an  offense  to  me.  The 
air  was  balmy,  but  its  balm  was  bitter 
to  me.     It  was  such  a  night  as  this, 
and  I  resolved  as  I  knelt  on  the  sod 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood.  209 

to  take  my  mother's  advice.  The 
next  day  at  the  grave  the  neighbors 
sang-  that  song  you  heard  me  sing  just 
now.  It  comes  back  to  me  when  I 
think  of  the  scene,  and  I  was  there 
just  now,  a  thousand  miles  away,  and 
something  in  my  heart  made  me  sing. 
Boys,  were  I  to  be  angry,  I  should  be 
lie  my  religion  and  fail  of  my  moth 
er's  teaching." 

Lawrance  listened  to  this  recital 
with  deep  feeling.  It  was  a  history 
much  like  his  own.  It  moved  him  ac 
cordingly,  as  if  a  voice  had  come  to 
him  from  the  grave.  He  could  not 
help  asking  himself  if  he  were  equally 
loyal  to  his  training  and  to  the  deeper 
convictions  of  his  nature.  He  de 
spised  himself  as  he  measured  his  life 
by  that  of  this  unknown  cowboy.  The 
rest  had  silently  listened.  Lawrance 
expected  an  outburst  of  ridicule,  but 
it  did  not  come.  He  noticed  that  one 
of  them  busied  himself  at  once  re 
plenishing  the  fire,  another  took  a 
bucket  and  went  to  the  creek  to  bring 
water,  and  a  third  found  diversion  in 
looking  after  the  horses.  When  all 


$00         In  White  and  Black. 

were  seated  again,  the  same  young 
man  who  had  so  valiantly  won  the 
field  before  proposed  to  read  to  them 
from  a  book  he  had  with  him.  Some 
time  before  he  had  been  to  the  city 
and  met  a  young  lady  at  the  home  of 
Capt.  Melton,  and  she  had  given  him 
the  book  to  read  in  camp.  She  was 
a  niece  of  Capt.  Melton's  and  was 
on  a  visit  from  Vandalia.  Melton  1 
Vandalia!  Lawrance  managed  to 
listen  without  any  sign  that  he  heard, 
though  at  sound  of  those  names  his 
heart  "knocked  at  the  seated  ribs"  and 
every  nerve  quivered  with  excitement. 
He  could  scarcely  credit  his  senses. 
There  was  an  almost  irresistible  im 
pulse  to  start  up  and  ask,  "Was  her 
name  Dora?"  But  by  a  supreme 
effort  he  restrained  himself,  and  list 
ened  with  inexpressible  eagerness 
while  the  young  man  dilated  on  the 
charms  of  Miss  Melton  and  her  kind 
ness. 

"What  was  she  like,  Bob?  Pretty, 
was  she,  and  got  next  to  your  flutter- 
mill,  hey?"  asked  Tim.  Tim  would 
have  shuddered  had  he  known  how 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood.  301 

near  that  question  came  to  getting 
his  own  "flutter-mill"  smashed  by  the 
"stranger." 

"Well,  I  can't  say  about  that,  but 
I'm  sure  she  had  something  about  her 
better  than  beauty,  something  that 
makes  a  fellow  want  to  lift  his  hat 
and  talk  low.  There  was  none  of 
your  sickening  airs,  but  a  simple, 
straightforward,  homespun  way.  As 
you  would  say,  Tim,  simply  business 
and  no  foolin'." 

"Yes,  I  seem  to  catch  on.  One  of 
these  ponies  that  can  go  the  gaits  but 
don't  go  in  for  showin'  off.  Jus' 
makes  straight  for  the  right  cow  every 
time,  but  bucks  on  the  race-track,  an' 
'ud  kick  a  painted  buggy  into  kindlin' 
wood  in  a  jiffy.  That's  what  I  like  in 
folks.  I'd  as  lief  have  Pedro  Garcia's 
yellow  cur  about  me  as  one  of  these  fe 
male  creatures  that  get  themselves  up 
in  their  crinoline,  and  curl-papers,  and 
flummery  and  furbelows  just  for  the 
drawin'-room,  and  then  mince  and 
giggle  and  say  nothin'  in  a  perfect 
stream  for  an  hour.  Makes  you  wish 
you  didn't  have  a  female  ancestor  on 


jo*        In  White  and  Black. 

either  side  the  family  for  generations 
back.  But  boys,  I  know  one  that 
looks  a  fellow  in  the  face  and  says 
something1  every  whack,  whether  she 
1  speaks  or  not,  and  makes  you  feel  like  j 
you  want  to  sit  down  and  grow  and  j 
grow  in  her  presence,  and  when  she's 
gone,  you  can  hear  a  voice  callin'  on 
you  for  days  to  get  up  and  be  some- 
thin'.  That's  why  I'm  here;  but  we'll 
leave  that  to  be  continued  in  the  next 
number." 

"Well,  I  should  not  have  put  it  that 
way,  but  you  are  not  far  from  the 
truth.  The  fact  is,  I  was  so  impressed 
with  her  goodness  that  I  scarcely 
thought  of  her  beauty.  But  I  remem 
ber  now,  she  has  sunny  hair,  a  little 
disorderly  about  the  brow,  a  blue  eye 
that  you  like  to  look  at  a  second  time, 
and  a  face — well,  a  face  so  perfect 
that  you  don't  bother  about  details. 
She  brought  this  book  all  the  way. 
from  Vandalia,  and  gave  it  to  me,  be-  j 
cause,  she  said,  we  must  be  lonely, 
and  it  would  be  company  for  us." 

Lawrance  had  been  struggling  with 
the  conviction  that  the  subject  of  this 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood.  303 

conversation  was  the  one  Miss  Melton 
that  he  had  known  or  cared  to  know 
until  he  heard  the  description,  and 
then  all  doubt  vanished,  for  he  was 
certain  there  was  no  other  like  her. 
He  was  in  the  presence  of  one  who 
had  recently  looked  into  her  face  and 
listened  to  her  voice.  How  he  longed 
to  ask  questions,  to  learn  all — why  she 
was  there,  whether  she  was  still  in  the 
city,  and  how  long  she  would  stay.  But 
quick  came  the  thought  that  there 
could  be  no  interest  to  him  in  know 
ing,  and  no  good  in  revealing  what 
must  remain  to  these  men  and  all  men 
a  buried  secret.  So  he  lay  quietly 
with  every  nerve  a-flutter  and  thoughts 
stirring  in  his  brain  that  were  not  for 
words.  The  fact  that  she  had  been  in 
the  city  clung  to  his  mind,  that  he  had 
been  so  near  her  and  had  not  known  it. 
The  rude  supper  was  now  ready. 
The  cowboys  forgot  the  subject  of 
their  conversation  in  the  more  inter 
esting  process  of  eating,  for  which 
they  were  as  thoroughly  qualified  as 
health,  pure  air  and  hard  labor  could 


304        In  White  and  Black. 

render  them.  Lawrance  did  not  for 
get;  how  could  he? 

What  did  it  mean  to  him?  Was  it 
not  all  one  to  him  whether  she  were 
near  or  far?  It  is  not  distance  that  di 
vides  hearts.  Distance  had  not  al 
tered  his  heart,  being  near  him  could 
not  affect  hers.  So  long  as  she  cared 
not  for  him,  there  might  as  well  be 
continents  between  them.  Yet  there 
was  something  inexpressibly  delight 
ful  in  the  thought  that  she  was  nearer 
than  he  had  known,  and  all  his  soul 
went  out  in  a  longing  to  get  sight  of 
her.  Yet  perhaps  it  was  best  he 
should  not.  He  was  drawn  irresistibly 
toward  the  city,  and  yet  sober  reflection 
told  him  he  had  best  flee  from  it,  since 
he  dared  not  make  himself  known, 
and  no  good  could  come  of  seeing  her. 
Impulse  or  reason,  which  shall  prevail? 
Long  he  pondered,  and  as  long  found 
no  resting-place  for  his  thoughts. 

The  cowboys  were  kind,  they  could 
not  be  gentle.  Their  homely  speeches, 
their  rude  familiarity,  their  uncouth 
manners,  could  not  conceal  the  native 
kindliness  of  their  natures;  indeed, 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood. 

these  were  signs,  the  only  signs  they 
knew  how  to  give,  of  their  friendly  dis 
position.  Of  fine  speeches  they  knew 
nothing,  of  fine  manners  less  if  possi 
ble,  but  in  fine  deeds  they  were  not 
wanting.  When  it  was  found  that  a 
fever  had  set  in,  and  that  he  could  not 
possibly  resume  his  journey  yet,  they 
nursed  him  with  unabated  attention, 
His  heart  turned  toward  the  city  now, 
and  he  pursuaded  himself  he  would 
not  for  some  time  be  strong  enough 
to  continue  his  search.  He  felt  he 
had  left  something  of  his  old  self 
on  the  other  side  of  that  stream, 
and  in  that  terrible  moment  when  all 
seemed  lost  to  him,  he  had  seen  in  one 
swift,  awful  vision  the  meaning  of  life 
as  never  before.  He  had  faced  life's 
issues  where  there  were  no  subter 
fuges  nor  sophistries,  but  only  cold, 
bare,  cruel  realities,  and  he  came  from 
the  revelation  with  new  and  higher 
ideals.  All  his  views  of  life  had  been 
taken  hitherto  looking  forward,  only 
this  once  he  had  one  quick  glimpse 
of  it  looking  backward.  Life  viewed 
from  the  beginning  is  one  thing;  life 


jo6        In  White  and  Black. 

viewed  from  the  ending  is  quite  an 
other.  To-morrow  is  never  under 
stood  until  it  becomes  yesterday.  To 
stand  at  the  dawn  and  watch  the  rose 
tint  fade  into  the  white  glory  of  noon 
tide  while  every  pulse  beats  high  with 
hope  is  sweet,  but  also  deceptive;  to 
stand  where  the  day  wanes  into  dark 
ness  and  see  the  fading  of  the  light  in 
which  we  have  wrought  and  reveled, 
and  realize  that  we  are  facing  the 
finished  and  irrevocable  record,  is 
awful,  but  it  is  also  sacredly  and  faith 
fully  real.  Once  that  vision  falls  on  the 
soul,  it  fixes  its  stamp  and  furnishes 
thereafter  the  standard  by  which  life 
is  to  be  tried.  That  which  will  not 
stand  the  test  of  this  backward  look, 
which  will  not  glow  transplendent  in 
the  calm  and  deepening  twilight,  is 
but  the  chaff  which  the  wind  driveth 
away.  When  Lawrance  turned  home 
ward,  there  was  a  seriousness  in  the 
tenor  of  his  thoughts  that  was  new, 
and,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not,  he 
had  crossed  a  stream  on  life's  high 
way  that  he  could  never  recross. 


Lasso  Contends  With  Flood.  307 

There  was  also  in  his  thoughts  that 
which  he  had  long  tried  in  vain  to  put 
out  of  them.  That  which  had  been 
awakened  in  his  heart  could  not  accu 
rately  be  named  hope;  perhaps  it  was 
only  a  yearning  that  rose  up  to  fight 
again  with  despair.  One  thing  was 
once  more  clear  to  him,  and  that  was 
that  no  time  or  space  or  circumstance 
could  overlay  or  efface  the  image  of 
Dora  so  that  it  would  not  still  be  the 
chief  treasure  of  his  heart;  and  no  am 
bition  or  toil  so  usurp  the  mind  that 
the  sound  of  her  name  would  not  com 
mand  all  the  forces  of  his  being,  as  a 
war-cry  will  arouse  an  army  from 
slumber.  There  remained  one  hope 
as  to  Dora;  that  he  might  clear  him 
self  in  her  eyes  from  any  suspicion  of 
crime.  It  was,  he  tried  to  persuade 
himself,  the  only  hope  he  cherished. 
Who  shall  say  there  did  not  linger 
about  this  a  troop  of  shadowy,  vague, 
unuttered  hopes?  Not  he,  for  we  are 
not  judges  of  ourselves.  Hope  dies 
hard,  and  where  the  twin  sister,  love, 
abides,  hope  is  in  calling  distance.  But 
of  this  one  hope  he  pondered  much. 


joS        In  White  and  Black. 

Could  he  but  secure  those  proofs, 
meant  for  her  originally,  courts  and 
juries  might  do  their  worst.  If  he 
were  only  innocent  in  her  eyes  the 
world  might  go  its  way.  Since  this 
hope  was  not  now  near  to  realization, 
he  told  himself  a  thousand  times,  it 
was  in  vain  he  drew  near  by  each  rod 
of  advance  to  his  idol  of  the  past.  Yet 
his  heart  refused  to  be  cold  and  accept 
the  comfortless  reality  which  common 
sense,  that  pitiless  tyrant  that  after 
all  is  sometimes  no  sense  at  all,  kept 
on  thrusting  upon  it.  In  spite  of  all 
his  dreary  conclusions,  his  heart 
glowed  and  thrilled  with  a  nameless 
rapture,  that  seemed  to  deepen  as  he 
approached  the  city.  What  is  that  in 
us  that  makes  us  cling  and  cling  to  a 
happiness,  even  when  it  seems  clean 
gone  from  us?  Is  it  a  prophecy  of  im 
mortality,  a  promise  of  the  compen 
sations  of  eternity,  a  germ  that  shall 
at  last  flower  and  fruit  on  the  now 
barren  soil  of  our  earthly  disappoint 
ments? 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  CLOUDS. 

The  visit  to  the  ranch  was  ended. 
The  discovery  of  the  grave  broke  the 
spell  of  enjoyment  completely,  and 
three  days  later  it  was  a  very  discon 
solate  party  that  made  its  way  back 
to  the  city.  Dora's  sadness  was  deep 
and  genuine,  but  it  was  tempered  by 
the  fact  that  she  had  secured  the  proof 
of  Lawrance's  innocence.  Also  there 
was  compensation  in  the  very  realiza 
tion  of  certainty.  There  is  much  in 
knowing  the  full  weight  you  have  to 
carry,  that  you  may  properly  adjust 
yourself  to  it.  Dora  had  now  reached 
that  point  where  she  saw  all  the  waste 
and  barrenness  of  the  future.  There 
was  no  longer  that  harassing  uncer 
tainty  that  oscillates  between  hope 
and  despair,  between  resistance  and 
resignation.  Amelia  was  surprised  at 
the  calmness  and  patience  with  which 

800 


In  White  and  Black. 

her  friend  faced  her  new  discovery. 
It  was  more  a  settled  melancholy  than 
a  violent  grief  that  dominated  the 
chastened  spirit. 

When  Aunt  Lylie  had  been  in 
formed  of  their  melancholy  dis 
covery,  she  was  affected  by  it  in  a 
way  that  others  had  not  been.  She 
was  pained  for  Dora's  sake,  but  there 
was  a  keener  pain  than  that.  That 
grave  was  a  stern  and  grim  impedi 
ment  to  her  faith.  She  had  always 
contended  they  would  find  Law- 
ranee,  For  that  she  had  prayed  and 
trusted.  Her  confidence  was  not 
easily  shaken  but  this  was  a  severe 
test.  She  had  relied  on  an  inward 
impression  and  the  facts  seemed  to 
contradict  that  testimony.  For  the 
first  time  in  many  years  she  retired 
that  night  without  praying.  She  was 
not  in  a  state  of  rebellion,  but  she 
was  in  a  state  of  perplexity  and 
dangerously  near  the  border-land  of 
doubt. 

Not  many  days  after  their  return  to 
the  city,  she  started  to  the  post-office 
at  least  half  a  mile  from  Capt.  Mel- 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds, 

ton's  residence.  Passing  along  on  her 
way  thither  by  a  street  she  did  not 
usually  travel,  she  suddenly  stopped 
in  front  of  a  barber-shop,  and  stood 
with  open  mouth  and  expanding  eyes 
till  two  or  three  disgusted  pedestrians 
had  run  against  her,  and  then,  as  if 
unconscious  of  onlookers,  made  a  dash 
for  the  door,  exclaiming,  "Bless  de 
Lawd!"  upsetting  a  spittoon  and  en 
dangering  the  life  of  a  man  who 
was  undergoing  the  torture  of  having 
a  crop  of  beard  of  two  weeks  growth 
in  the  sun  and  weather  of  ranch  life 
mowed  from  his  face,  threw  her  arms 
around — Ben. 

It  is  useless  to  say  two  hearts  were 
happy.  It  is  to  Ben's  credit  that  he 
did  not  resent  the  unconventional  en 
thusiasm  of  his  simple  old  mammy, 
though  barbers  and  customers  were 
greatly  amused.  He  got  himself  ex 
cused  and  retired  with  her  into  a  room 
in  the  rear  where  they  might  talk. 
Ben  was  as  surprised  to  see  her  as  she 
to  see  him.  He  soon  explained  to  her 
that  he  had  been  employed  by  a  man 
from  San  Antonio  with  a  drove  of 


312        In  White  and  Black. 

horses,  and  had  been  persuaded  to  re 
turn  to  that  city  with  him  when  he  had 
disposed  of  his  drove.  He  had  found 
employment  in  this  shop  and  by  in 
dustry  and  sobriety  was  getting  on 
well. 

That  in  which  Aunt  Lylie  was  most 
interested  was  the  information  that 
Ben  had  to  give  concerning  Lawrance. 
He  had  been  in  that  very  shop  and 
recognized  Ben,  and  they  had  talked 
together.  It  had  not  been  a  month 
since  he  had  seen  Lawrance.  He 
was  surprised  and  grieved  to  hear 
of  the  finding  of  his  grave,  but  re 
called  the  fact  that  he  was  anything 
but  well  when  he  saw  him.  When 
Aunt  Lylie  left  him  it  was  understood 
that  Ben  was  to  busy  himself  till  they 
should  meet  again  next  day  in  search 
of  the  place  where  Lawrance  had 
boarded,  and  for  any  other  informa 
tion  he  might  gain  about  him.  There 
was  a  hope  in  her  mind  that  she  might 
discover  that  in  connection  with  Law- 
ranee's  life  in  the  city  which  would 
be  a  comfort  to  the  heart  of  Dora. 
She  had,  in  her  ignorance  of  many 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds. 

things,  that  womanly  wisdom  that  di 
vines  the  deep,  delicate  needs  of  the 
heart.     She  felt  that  any  little  proofs 
of  his  devotion,  of  his  fidelity  to  his 
first  love,  or  even  praise  of  his  life  from 
the  lips  of  strangers,  or  other  tokens 
of  his   worth,   would   be    to   Dora's 
bruised  spirit  like  dew  on  mown  grass. 
Shall  we  say  this  was  her  only  hope? 
We  dare  not,  for  whether  she  ever 
formulated  it  or  not,  there  still  lingered 
a  glow  of  that  hope  that  had  sustained 
her  so  long,  of  one  day  seeing  Law- 
ranee  and  Dora  happy.    Of  course, 
she  dared  not   whisper  it  to  herself, 
but  it  clung  about  her  simple  heart  as 
the  afterglow  of  sunset  lingers  in  the 
sky,   or  like  the  perfume  of  flowers 
clinging  to  the  shattered  vase.    Shall 
we  blame  her?  This  hope  had  wrought 
itself  in  with  the  most  sacred  impulses 
of  her  life;  it  had  struck  its  roots  into 
the  deepest,  divinest  soil  of  her  nature. 
It  had  linked  itself  so  with  her  faith 
and  become  so  a  part  of  her  religion 
that  to  destroy  the  one  threatened  the 
other — when  she  could  no  longer  pray 
for  that,  she  could  not  pray  at  all. 


314        In  White  and  Black. 

However  unreasoning,  even  insane, 
such  a  hope  might  be,  who  shall  blame 
her  if  it  clung  to  her  still? 

When  she  returned  to  the  Melton 
home  they  had  been  waiting  long  for 
letters  from  home.  Then  she  realized 
that  she  had  not  been  to  the  office  at 
all,  and  exclaimed:  "Ef  dat  don'  beat 
all.  I  'clar  ter  gracious,  dis  town  so 
stractin'  hit  mek  er  niggah  lose  dey 
haid."  Then  she  turned  and  went 
back,  leaving  Amelia  wondering  what 
had  come  over  her. 

That  night  Aunt  Lylie  prayed  long 
and  fervently.  Her  faith  had  received 
a  new  impulse.  She  began  to  see 
dimly.  It  is  easier  to  believe  when 
there  is  some  light  on  the  eyes.  Such 
is  human  weakness.  Aunt  Lylie  kept 
her  secret.  Since  the  return  from  the 
ranch  she  had  slept  little  and  eaten 
less.  Now  that  she  had  found  Ben 
and  gotten  trace  of  Lawrance,  sleep 
was  impossible.  The  flame  of  life  was 
burning  too  brightly  to  be  smothered 
by  sleep,  if  not  too  brightly  to  last. 

Next  day  she  found  an  excuse  to 
go  to  see  Ben.  He  had  been  diligent 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  315 

and  had  found  out  where  Lawrance 
had  boarded.  He  learned  there  that 
he  was  often  away  several  days  at  a 
time.  At  this  time  he  had  been  away 
for  many  days,  and  it  was  not  known 
where  he  had  gone.  She  resolved  to 
go  and  make  inquiries  about  him  and 
quiet  her  conscience  by  doing  her 
best.  She  had  but  a  short  distance  to 
go,  and  somehow  she  felt  it  was  not 
much  more  she  should  do  for  Dodie. 
Arid  so  she  went  on  her  search  heed 
less  of  all  else.  She  had  been  gone 
long  enough  to  create  anxiety  when 
she  turned  the  corner  in  front  of  the 
Melton  residence  at  a  most  undigni 
fied  and — we  beg  her  pardon — a  most 
ungainly  speed.  Her  skirts  were  flap 
ping  wildly  and  her  white  handker 
chief,  partially  escaped  from  its  moor 
ings,  was  flying  over  her  shoulder  like 
a  torn  sail  in  a  tempest.  She  paid  no 
attention  to  a  half-dozen  street  Arabs 
who  started  up  from  as  many  different 
places  along  the  way,  and  followed, 
shouting  all  sorts  of  ridiculous  phrases. 
It  was  as  the  chirp  of  sparrows  in  the 
path  of  a  conqueror.  When  a  heart 


316         In  White  and  Black. 

has  been  full  of  a  purpose,  a  high,  un 
selfish  purpose,  and  that  purpose  is 
accomplished,  what  avails  the  ridicule 
of  a  regiment  more  or  less  of  the 
thoughtless.  Aunt  Lylie  was  lifted 
into  a  region  where  praise  and  blame 
are  both  alike,  because  they  are  not 
heard.  She  bounded  up  the  front  steps, 
crying,  "Whar's  Dodie?  Whar's 
Dodie?  Fs — foun' — 'im.  Fs  foun' — 
'im." 

Hearing  the  sound  of  a  door  flung 
wide,  and  the  falling  of  a  chair  that 
dared  obstruct  this  triumphal  march, 
Dora  came  out  into  the  hall  just  in 
time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  this  white 
and  black  thundercloud  of  emotion, 
and  then  to  be  caught  in  its  embrace. 
She  felt  the  pressure  of  arms  that  had 
so  often  shielded  her  from  pain  and 
loneliness,  and  the  quick  heaving  of  a 
bosom  that  never  harbored  any  but  a 
tender  thought  of  her,  while  her  aston 
ished  ears  caught  the  fragmentary 
outbursts  of  the  glad  tidings:  "I  tole 
yer — we  gwine  fin'  'im — I  seed  'im — 
wid — dese — eyes."  There  was  no 
chance  for  interruptions.  Dora  was 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  317 

a.t  a  loss  to  consider  whether  Aunt 
Lylie  was  beside  herself,  or  the  story 
true.  She  drew  the  old  negro  into 
her  room  and  gave  her  a  chair,  into 
which  she  fell  breathless,  unable  to 
speak  for  some  time.  Dora  flew  to 
call  Amelia,  who  was  walking  by  the 
riverside,  and  brought  her  to  Aunt 
Lylie.  Her  coming  was  the  signal  for 
another  outburst.  Amelia  listened 
and  heard  her  say:  "Mars  Lawrance 
an'  Ben,  too,  I  foun'  'em,"  and  caught 
Dora  in  her  arms,  and  they  two  min 
gled  their  tears  of  joy. 

When  they  turned  their  attention  to 
Aunt  Lylie  again,  she  was  leaning 
against  the  side  of  the  chair,  her  hands 
hanging  limp,  her  eyes  closed — she 
had  fainted.  The  excitement  of  the 
last  few  days,  this  sudden  joy,  together 
with  the  headlong  run,  had  been  too 
much  for  her.  She  was  helped  to  a 
bed  and  simple  restoratives  soon 
brought  a  change.  When  she  was 
able  to  speak,  she  opened  her  eyes, 
looked  up  at  Dora,  who  was  bending 
over  her,  and  said  with  ineffable  ten- 


318        In  White  and  Black. 

derness:      "Dodie— ole — black  mam- 
mie's — wuk — dun,  an'  dun." 

They  dared  not  question  her,  she 
was  too  feeble  and  so  they  must  wait. 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  slept.  Dora 
drew  the  shades  and  leaving-  Aunt'; 
Lylie  in  charge  of  her  aunt,  Mrs. 
Melton,  she  and  Amelia  stole  out 
and  sitting1  on  the  river-bank  talked 
or  thought  the  tidings  over  together. 
They  believed  Aunt  Lylie.  They 
could  not  understand  how  there 
could  be  any  mistake  about  the 
grave,  but  less  could  they  understand 
how  the  old  servant  could  be  misled. 
Dora  said  little.  She  seemed  to  be  lis 
tening.  She  was  listening  to  the  music 
in  her  heart.  She  could  not  think  nor 
plan,  but  only  rejoice.  She  was  not 
now  in  a  world  of  fact,  only  in  a 
world  of  feeling.  That  world  that  has 
no  past,  no  future,  but  is  one  eternal 
now.  It  has  neither  memory  nor 
hope,  but  revels  in  realization.  As; 
they  sat  with  clasped  hands,  the  river 
murmured  among  the  flags  along  the 
bank,  and  the  lithe  wind  whispered 
through  the  boughs  overhead,  and  the 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  319 

brown  leaves  danced  merrily  about 
their  feet.  Amelia  made  out  in  her 
own  mind  this  much:  As  soon  as 
Aunt  Lylie  could  tell  it,  they  must 
find  out  where  Lawrance  was  and 
that  she  would  then  undertake  the 
pleasing1  task  of  bringing1  him  and 
Dora  together. 

When  they  were  able  to  gather  the 
full  story,  it  was  less  pleasing  than 
they  had  supposed.  Aunt  Lylie  had 
really  found  Lawrance  but  she  had 
found  him  in  prison.  When  she 
searched  out  the  house  in  which  he 
boarded,  she  learned  he  had  been  ar 
rested  that  morning  and  was  in  the 
custody  of  the  police.  She  had  made 
her  way  to  the  jail,  where  she  was  per 
mitted  to  see  the  prisoner.  She  said 
little  to  him,  only  enough  to  make 
sure  of  his  identity  and  to  give  him  to 
understand  she  had  been  in  search  of 
him.  Then  she  had  made  that  head 
long  rush  for  home,  bearing  her  tid 
ings. 

As  to  what  Lawrance  had  said  to 
her,  he  was  too  much  astonished  by 
her  brief  visit  to  say  anything,  in  fact 


320        In  White  and  Black. 

the  full  import  of  it  did  not  dawn  on 
him  until  he  heard  her  voice  come 
back  from  the  corridors  of  the  prison 
in  declaration  of  his  innocence  and  in 
vigorous  denunciation  of  the  injustice 
being1  done  him. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  await 
patiently  the  course  of  the  law,  and 
meet  the  charges  where  they  origi 
nated.  He  had  little  hope  of  the  aid 
of  the  detective  now,  and  even  his  new 
friend  who  called  himself  Chris  Ware 
had  disappeared  from  the  scene. 
There  was  one  consolation  in  it  all. 
Dora  was  here  and  would  not  be  in 
Vandalia  to  witness  his  shame.  But 
when  Aunt  Lylie  appeared  on  the 
scene  even  that  consolation  was  shat 
tered.  The  visit  of  that  individual  and 
the  few  excited  words  that  she  uttered 
led  him  to  believe  that  Dora  believed 
him  innocent,  and  that  she  would  per 
haps  be  willing  to  befriend  him.  But 
at  that  thought  all  the  bitterness  of 
his  disappointment  came  back  to  him, 
and  he  saw  once  more  the  awful  sylla 
bles  that  had  blighted  his  life.  No 
judge  could  ever  pronounce  a  sentence 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  321 

that  would  not  be  less  terrible  than 
was  the  one  that  exiled  him  from  hope 
and  home.  Now  his  pride  and  sense 
of  innocence  were  his  only  friends — 
they  should  still  be  his  only  friends, 
and  she  who  had  robbed  him  of  hope 
should  not  now  bid  him  throw  away 
his  pride.  If  the  visit  of  Aunt  Lylie 
should  mean  that  Dora  meant  him 
any  service,  he  would  not  accept  it, 
it  had  come  too  late.  The  heart  of 
Lawrance  grew  hot  with  the  most  in 
tense  resentment  that  it  had  ever 
cherished  towards  Dora.  The  prison- 
bars,  the  humiliation,  the  friendless- 
ness — all  served  to  give  emphasis  to 
memories  that  would  not  die.  He  saw 
her  white  hand  on  the  prison-bolt  and 
felt  she  had  thrust  him  in  there.  His 
strength  rallied  as  he  kindled  the  fires 
of  resentment  on  the  altar  of  his  love, 
those  hottest,  fiercest  fires  kindled  out 
of  the  fuel  of  things  most  sacred. 
They  make  men  strong,  but  with  a 
terrible,  cruel  strength. 

Night  came  draped  in  clouds,  and 
with  a  low  rumble  of  thunder  coming 
now  and  then  out  of  the  west  one  of 


,  322         In  White  and  Black. 

those  nights  that  thrust  their  gloom 
into  the  very  marrow  and"  lay  chill 
hands  of  dread  on  the  soul. 

Ben  had  come  to  see  his  mother, 
and  had  brought  other  information. 
He  had  found  out  the  charge  on  which 
Lawrance  had  been  arrested,  and  that 
he  was  likely  to  be  held  there  for  a  day 
or  two  and  perhaps  more  before  he 
was  sent  to  Vandalia.  Capt.  Melton 
was  out  of  the  city. 

Dora  threw  her  cloak  about  her  and 
taking  Ben  with  her  went  out  into  the 
night.  Was  it  safe?  She  did  not  know. 
Was  this  step  womanly?  She  did  not 
ask.  She  had  reached  that  stage  where 
a  true  woman  remembers  one  thing 
and  one  only.  She  did  not  count  the 
cost,  she  was  resolved  to  act  regard 
less  of  cost.  Lawrance  must  be  freed, 
and  then — whatever  came.  To  that 
point  all  the  woman's  soul  of  her  gath 
ered  itself  up  and  hastened,  not  heed 
ing  what  lay  between;  beyond  it  her 
heart  forbade  her  to  look  lest  the 
beauty  of  the  deed  be  marred. 

Guided  by  Ben  she  went  straight  to 
the  prison.  The  place  was  anything 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds. 

but  inviting  even  to  stouter  nerves 
than  Dora's.  It  was  a  dingy,  grimy, 
two-story  stone  building  with  police 
office  below  and  prison-cells  above. 
They  were  hard,  stern,  unsympathetic 
faces  that  confronted  her.  The  nar 
row  office  was  lighted  by  a  single  jet, 
that  shot  its  yellow  arrows  into  a 
dense  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke.  Dora's 
cause  gave  her  courage,  and  she  went 
bravely  in,  clutching  under  her  cloak 
the  weapon  with  which  she  was  to 
fight  for  the  freedom  of  Lawrance — 
the  confession  of  "Shocky." 

"How,  what  have  we  here,  my  lass? 
Rather  an  unseasonable  hour  for  such 
as  you.  What  can  we  do  for  you?" 
This  was  her  greeting  by  a  burly  po 
liceman,  as  he  rested  one  hand  on  the 
butt  of  his  pistol  and  with  the  other 
twirled  a  stout  club.  There  was  some 
thing  in  the  voice  painfully  unlike  the 
voices  she  had  been  used  to,  and  the 
sight  of  half  a  dozen  others  of  the 
same  general  pattern  lounging  and 
smoking  on  the  inside  was  not  reas 
suring.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
they  all  became  instantly  attentive,  as 


324        In  White  and  Black. 

if  alert  for  the  latest  sensation.  Dora 
mastered  her  timidity,  and  spoke 
firmly: 

"You  have  a  prisoner  here  by  the 
name  of  Kenyon,  have  you  not?" 
"Kenyon?    When  did  he  come  in?" 
He  was  answered  from  within: 
"That's  the  chap  I  pulled  this  morn 
ing,  Chief." 

"Oh,  yes.    Well,  what  of  him?" 
"I   wish   to    speak    to    him,"   said 
Dora. 

"That  is  impossible.  He  has  been 
locked  up,  and  it  is  too  late  for  vis 
itors." 

"But  I  must  see  him.  Only  for  a 
minute,  just  to  speak  a  word  to  him. 
I  know  he  is  innocent,  I  have  the 
proof,  and  I  must  tell  him.  Fancy 
what  it  means,  what  it  would  mean  to 
you,  to  be  locked  up  like  that  when 
you  were  innocent,  and  no  word  from 
— from  any  one."  She  spoke  earn 
estly  and  rapidly,  and  at  the  last  her 
voice  broke,  and  her  eyes  were  bril 
liant  and  eloquent  with  tears. 

The  voice  that  replied  was  less 
harsh  now,  "I  am  sorry,  Miss,  but  it  is 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  325 

against  the  rules  for  visitors  to  see 
prisoners  at  this  hour,  and  we  can  not 
make  exceptions." 

"But,"  said  Dora,  "here  are  proofs  of 
his  innocence.  It  is  the  confession  of 
the  guilty  man.  When  you  see  it  you 
will  let  him  go?"  This  last  as  an 
eager  question,  producing  the  precious 
document  as  she  finished. 

"I  would  be  glad  to  accommodate 
you,  ma'am,  but  it  is  impossible.  All 
the  proofs  in  the  world  are  of  no  use 
here.  You  will  have  a  chance  to  pro 
duce  them  at  the  proper  time,"  and  he 
turned  away  to  indicate  that  there  was 
nothing  further  to  be  said. 

Dora  hesitated.  How  helpless  she 
felt  in  the  presence  of  that  great 
power  called  law,  sometimes  also 
called  justice,  which  seemed  to  her 
now  a  monster  deaf  to  pleading  and 
blind  to  tears.  She  thought  of  a 
message  to  Lawrance,  a  message  that 
would  have  sweetened  all  the  bitter 
ness  of  his  heart  and  turned  that 
prison  into  a  palace,  but  that  message 
refused  to  blossom  in  that  atmosphere, 
and  with  sinking  heart  she  turned 


J26         In  White  and  Black. 

sadly  away;  and  Lawrance  brooded  in 
the  darkness,  all  ignorant  of  the  hap 
piness  so  near  to  him — happiness  for 
him,  if  he  had  known  it,  in  the  very 
wretchedness  of  Dora. 

Then  a  thought  came  to  Dora  that 
brightened  her  face.  There  was  a 
chance  yet.  How  hearts  defy  dis 
tance!  And  that  there  is  anywhere  in 
the  wide  earth  one,  just  one,  soul  that 
will  always  lower  its  scepter  at  our 
coming,  how  it  cheers  and  strengthens ! 
Dora  knew  the  electricity  of  the  clouds 
yonder  did  not  leap  to  meet  the  elec 
tricity  of  the  earth  more  surely  or 
readily  than  the  strength  of  her  father 
would  leap  to  gird  her  weakness,  and 
the  thought  soothed  her  as  the  embrace 
of  his  arms  had  often  done  for  the 
motherless  girl.  She  hurried  to  the 
telegraph-office  not  far  away  and  sent 
the  following  message  to  him: 

"Lawrance  arrested  here  for  burning  store.  Have  him 
released.  I  have  proof  of  his  innocence.  DORA." 

It  had  begun  to  rain.  The  clouds 
hung  low.  The  streets  were  silent  and 
the  street-lamps  flickered  with  a  sickly 
glow  where  they  chanced  to  be.  To- 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  327 

night  there  was  much  darkness  be 
tween  them,  and  the  way  for  Dora 
and  Ben  was  along  the  river,  which 
sang  a  dull  minor  over  the  shal 
lows  in  full  harmony  with  the  dismal 
heavens  above  and  the  depressed 
spirits  within.  At  one  point  a  sudden 
turn  brought  them  close  to  the  river- 
bank,  under  the  dark,  dripping  trees. 
Dora  was  listening  to  their  footfalls, 
which  seemed  startlingly  loud  in  the 
silence,  when  suddenly  two  men 
stepped  into  the  path  in  front  of  them. 
Their  outlines  could  barely  be  seen  as 
they  planted  themselves  across  the 
path.  Dora  and  Ben  stopped.  When 
the  two  men  started  to  advance  Ben's 
courage,  not  the  most  virile  at  the  best, 
forsook  him  utterly  and  he  took  to  his 
heels.  This  brought  Dora  to  herself, 
and  in  a  voice  of  command  and  re 
buke,  she  simply  said,  "Ben!"  It  had 
the  desired  effect.  Ben  retraced  his 
steps.  The  voice  of  Dora  had  rallied 
his  courage  or  else  her  authority  had 
mastered  his  fears.  The  unknown 
men  were  only  two  paces  in  advance, 
completely  barring  the  way.  One  of 


328        In  White  and  Black. 

them  spoke  in  an  easy,  almost  polite 
voice: 

"Make  no  noise,  Miss,  and  you  shall 
suffer  no  harm.  We  only  want  those 
papers  you  have  about  you.  Be  so 
kind  as  to  hand  me  those  and  you  may 
pass  on." 

Dora  thought  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning.  These  men  must  know  the 
value  of  these  papers  and  that  she  had 
them.  She  thought  of  some  ugly 
faces  she  had  seen  at  the  police  sta 
tion.  They  were,  then,  enemies  of 
Lawrance.  His  safety  was  at  stake. 
She  must  defend  those  papers,  even 
with  her  life.  Yet  how?  She  could 
not  flee,  she  was  at  the  mercy  of  these 
men.  Could  she  commit  the  precious 
package  to  the  darkness? 

In  a  firm  tone  she  said,  "Let  me  pass. 
I  will  give  you  my  life  sooner  than 
these  papers."  So  saying,  she  made 
a  movement  forward.  One  of  the 
men  sprang  at  her,  but  was  met  by 
the  fist  of  Ben,  which  laid  him  his 
length  on  the  ground.  Then  she  saw 
Ben  felled  by  a  club  in  the  hands  of 
the  other.  She  must  act  quickly.  She 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  329 

grasped  the  package  of  papers,  and 
flung  them  out  into  the  darkness.  To 
her  amazement  she  saw  the  white 
leaves  uncurl  on  the  bosom  of  the 
river,  touched  at  that  point  by  the 
light  of  a  distant  street-lamp,  and  the 
careless  waters  laughed  and  gam 
boled  as  they  bore  away  what  was  to 
her  more  precious  than  life  itself. 
The  highwayman  sprang  towards  her 
at  the  moment  she  threw  the  paper, 
but  he  never  reached  her,  for  swift  and 
terrible  came  a  blow  from  some  un 
seen  hand  in  his  rear  that  laid  him 
sprawling  on  the  earth.  Then  before 
she  knew  what  was  happening,  she 
was  caught  by  a  strong  pair  of  arms, 
lifted  from  her  feet  and  carried  away, 
she  knew  not  whither,  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child.  She  had  not  fainted  nor 
cried  out  during  all  the  excitement,  nor 
did  she  do  either  now,  but  she  was 
powerless  in  the  giant  grasp  to  do 
anything  but  let  herself  be  borne 
along,  bewildered,  overcome  by  the 
excitement  through  which  she  had 
just  passed  and  was  passing.  She 
hadn't  time  for  much  reflection,  till 


In  White  and  Black. 

there  came  a  voice  from  that  monster 
with  the  iron  grip  saying,  "Don't  be 
oneasy,  Miss,  we'll  have  you  home  in 
a  minute."  This  was  all,  till  she  was 
put  gently  down  at  her  uncle's  door, 
and  the  voice  said  again,  "I  hope  yer 
not  shuck  up  ter  hurt/'  and  before  she 
could  answer  or  breathe  her  thanks, 
the  darkness  had  swallowed  him. 

She  lost  no  time  in  looking  after 
Ben,  who,  when  help  reached  him, 
was  alone,  the  two  highwaymen  hav 
ing  managed  to  take  themselves  away. 
Ben  was  recovering  consciousness. 
He  was  bleeding  freely  from  a  wound 
in  the  head  but  proved  not  to  be  se 
riously  hurt. 

Dora,  delivered  from  the  strange 
whirlwind  of  events  in  which  all  think 
ing  had  been  swallowed  up,  began  to 
cast  about  to  see  if  she  might  decide 
what  was  to  be  done  next. 

It  was  a  gray  morning  that  broke  on 
the  sleepless  eyes  looking  out  of  her 
window,  and  the  clouds  that  rolled  in 
huge  masses  across  the  sky  envelop 
ing  and  enfolding  each  other  were  fit 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  331 

symbols  of  her  mental  condition.  She 
paced  the  room  in  the  early  light  and 
tried  to  compose  her  spirits.  While 
thus  absorbed,  there  came  a  sudden 
gleam  of  light,  and  looking  up  she 
saw  the  city  was  bathed  in  the  glory 
of  the  rising  sun,  that  had  ploughed 
a  huge  breach  in  the  clouds,  set  all 
the  spires  agleam  and  turned  the 
growth  along  the  river  into  an  or 
chard  of  diamonds.  As  suddenly 
something  within  her  that  the  clouds 
and  darkness  had  quenched  was 
touched  into  life  by  that  light. 
Though  she  did  not  see  the  way,  in 
some  vague  yet  beautiful  sense  she 
felt  there  was  a  way  and  that  she  was 
equal  to  finding  it. 

While  her  nature  in  the  morning 
light  was  getting  its  slack  forces  into 
place  as  a  bow  is  bent  to  the  string, 
she  heard  the  door-bell  ring.  Listen 
ing,  she  heard  her  own  name  called. 
Who  could  it  be?  Perhaps  a  message 
from  Lawrance.  Soon  she  was  sum 
moned  to  greet  a  strange  man,  who 
made  a  too  evident  and  therefore 


332         In  White  and  Black. 

awkward  effort  to  hide  that  ill-used, 
shrinking  manner  that  crime  and  mis 
ery  beget.  After  her  kind  greeting, 
he  began  in  a  hesitating  drawl: 

"I  come  to  see  you,  Miss,  not  that 
the  like  o'  me  is  fit  to  look  at  the  like 
o'  you,  but  because  I  knowed  things 
you  didn't,  and  can  help  you.  Ef  I'd 
a*  wanted  to  hurt  you,  I  could  a'  done 
it  las'  night  when  I  brung  you  home. 
But  it  makes  me  happy  to  do  for  you, 
'cause  you've  been  good  to  my  Chris 
what  I  left  like  a  dog.  I  furgot  you 
don't  know  I  am  Chris's  pa,  an'  it 
ain't  fur  him  to  be  proud  uv." 

Dora  could  contain  herself  no 
longer,  and  she  exclaimed,  "You  the 
father  of  Chris,  and  you  here,  and 
it  was  you  who  defended  me,  and 
brought  me  home  last  night!  Do  let 
me  thank  you — " 

"Don't  mind,  Miss;  it's  all  on  ac 
count  o'  Chris,  an'  'cause  you  bin 
good  to  him,  an'  Mr.  Kenyon  an'  his 
good  word  to  me.  It's  not  many  good 
turns  I've  done  in  my  time,  an'  it 
makes  a  body  feel  more  like  'e's  some 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  333 

account  to  lend  a  hand  for  them  as 
deserves  it  It's  not  a  long  story,  nor 
one  'at  a  feller  can  brag1  about,  but  I'll 
make  it  as  cler  as  I  can. 

"You  see,  I  was  wuthless,  an*  all  fum 
drink,  an*  I  fell  into  ways  as  wus  bad, 
bad.  Then  I  had  to  hide  out,  an'  with 
two  other  men  I  come  here,  after 
goin'  down  to  Mexico.  One  of  the 
three  was  the  man  that  burnt  the 
store.  He  give  a  man  them  papers 
you  had  last  night.  He  wanted  to  git 
rid  o'  that  showin'  o'  his  guilt,  an'  also 
to  git  Mr.  Kenyon  convicted,  for  he 
was  to  git  a  part  o'  the  reward.  He 
was  at  the  station  las'  night,  an' 
heard  you  say  you  had  'em,  though 
how  you  come  by  'em  1  can't  make 
out.  He  then  follered  on  with  'is  pal 
to  waylay  you  an'  git  'em  from  you. 
I've  quit  'em,  all  along  o'  Mr.  Kenyon 
givin'  us  a  talk  one  night.  I  was  at 
the  station  an'  watched  'em.  I  knowed 
they  meant  mischief,  you  see  I  know 
that  sort,  an'  I  follered.  My  jedg- 
ment  was  right,  an'  I  got  there  jest  in 
time  ter  help  you  out,  though  you 


334        ?n  White  and  Black. 

shorely  was  stan'in'  yer  groun'  plucky 
fur  a'  'oman. 

"I  come  ter  say  'bout  Mr.  Kenyon, 
don't  you  be  no  ways  oneasy.  I 
1  knows  all  erbout  that  bizness,  an'  I'm 
er  goin'  to  see  'im  through.  They 
ain't  nary  hair  o'  his  head  in  no 
danger.  I  ain't  hankerin'  after  no 
court,  fur  I've  got  reasons  to  fight 
shy  uv  all  sich,  but  ef  Mr.  Kenyon  has 
ter  go  thar,  here's  one  as  is  goin'  too, 
an'  tell  what  I  know  ef  I  hang  fur  it 
— which  I  don't  think,  min'  you,  he'll 
ever  have  to  go.  An'  I  wanted  you  to 
know  you  could  count  on  me  in  this 
'ere  bizness  for  all  I'm  wuth,  an'  that 
ain't  much." 

While  he  was  speaking,  a  telegram 
was  put  into  Dora's  hands  which  was 
opened  with  trembling  fingers.  It 
read: 

"All  right.  No  cause  for  arrest.  Will  be  ordered  re 
leased  at  once.  FATHER.*' 

"Jes'  as  I  'lowed  it  'ud  be,"  said  the  \ 
visitor  when  it  was  read,  and  his  face 
showed  only  a  little  less  satisfaction 
than  Dora's. 


The  Breaking  of  the  Clouds.  335 

It  was  genuine  delicacy  and  insight 
that  prompted  Dora  to  ask  this  man 
to  carry  the  dispatch  with  her  compli 
ments  to  Mr.  Kenyon,  and  his  soul 
was  in  the  alacrity  with  which  he  ac 
cepted  the  task. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  MEETING  AND  A  PARTING. 

Lawrance  found  himself  at  liberty 
and  back  in  his  room  at  the  noon  hour. 
There  were  thing's  for  him  to  think 
over.  None  so  absorbing"  as  the  fact 
that  evidently,  whether  he  was  willing 
or  not,  Dora  had  played  an  important 
part  in  securing  his  release,  except  that 
other  question  of  what  he  was  to  do 
about  it,  now  he  was  out  of  prison.  He 
did  not  know  the  motive  that  lay  back 
of  her  acts,  nor  what  they  might  mean 
to  him.  She  dared  not  let  him  know. 
To  her  he  was  the  lover  who  had  left 
her  without  a  word  of  explanation. 
To  him  she  was  the  woman  who  had 
cruelly  flung  him  from  her,  and  he  felt 
now  he  could  not  forget  and  meet  her 
as  a  friend  simply.  He  felt  it  would 
be  discourteous  not  to  in  some  way 
recognize  her  kindness.  He  went 
through  the  form  of  writing  a  formal 

888 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting.     JS7 

note  of  thanks,  but  he  was  half  con 
scious  all  the  time  it  was  being  written 
that  he  would  not  send  it.  When  he 
finished  he  was  thoroughly  certain  it 
would  be  acting  a  stupendous  false 
hood  to  send  that,  and  he  tore  it  to 
shreds.  Then  he  wrote  a  polite  re 
quest  for  the  privilege  of  calling  to  ex 
press  his  thanks  in  person.  But  when 
he  thought  of  her  coming  to  the  prison 
and  encountering  those  ruffians,  and 
for  him,  he  called  himself  names  not 
at  all  complimentary  for  resorting  to 
that  formality,  and  did  the  manly, 
sensible  thing — went  straight  to  Capt. 
Melton's  and  called  for  Dora.  For 
the  rest  no  pen  is  adequate. 

Happy  souls,  we  leave  you  to  your 
bliss!  We  can  trust  the  hand  of  love 
to  tear  away  the  veil  that  has  hung 
between  you.  Distance,  that  friend 
of  delusion  and  deception,  no  longer 
divides  you,  and  the  voice  of  love  will 
break  the  long  silence  and  lay  the 
ghosts  of  suspicion.  We  only  know 
that  falsehood  can  not  live,  nor  doubt 
haunt  the  heart,  when  two  who  love 
are  face  to  face.  Further  we  have  no 


338        In  White  and  Black. 

care  to  inquire.  How  many  strange 
things  of  the  past  few  months  will  be 
made  plain  in  the  white  light  of  that 
holy  confidence,  and  what  tides  of 
rapture  shall  roll  over  the  desert  sands 
as  heart  speaks  to  heart!  We  bid  you 
welcome  to  love's  Elysium;  you  de 
serve  it,  as  those  whose  hearts  are 

true  deserve  it  always. 

******* 

It  was  growing  late  in  the  day  when 
Lawrance  rose  to  go.  The  sun  was 
descending  the  cloud-flecked  west, 
and  a  holy  peace  was  over  the  earth. 
Aunt  Lylie  had  asked  to  see  the  lov 
ers  before  they  parted.  This  privilege 
was  willingly  granted  her,  for  they 
felt  how  much  they  owed  to  her  fidel 
ity,  and  also  it  had  been  made  clear 
that  she  was  near  the  end.  The  forces 
of  her  life  had  spent  themselves,  and 
the  restless  energies  were  slowing  up. 
It  began  to  be  evident  that  her 
prophecy  was  true  that  her  work  was 
done.  Noble  work  it  had  been, 
though  done  by  an  humble  soul.  Her 
mind  was  clear,  only  when  she  slept 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting. 

there  were  broken  sentences  that 
showed  she  was  moving  in  the  realm 
of  shadows.  "I's  gittin'  monst'ous 
ti'd,  but  den  'tain't  but  erleetle  furder. 
I  kin  see  de  house  an'  de  big- beech  an' 
ole  mistiss  waitin'  fur  me  on  de  big 
po'ch."  Then  she  waved  her  hand  as 
if  answering  a  signal.  Sometimes 
she  sang  a  simple  lullaby,  accompa 
nied  by  a  swaying  motion  of  the  head 
and  arms,  then  patting  the  cover,  she 
would  say,  "Dar  now,  leetle  Dodie 
ain'  gwine'  cry  no  mo;  kase  black 
mammy  dun  an'  sung  'er  ter  sleep." 
She  was  back  in  the  childhood  of 
Dora.  Once  more  recent  memories 
wove  themselves  into  her  dreams,  and 
she  murmured,  "Lylie  hears  yer  callin', 
Mistiss,  an'  she  comin'  now,  kase  she 
done  foun'  'im,  and'  de  li'l  lam'  kin 
git  'long  'dout  me  now." 

Lawrance  tried. to  thank  her  for  the 
part  she  had  taken  in  bringing  them 
together,  but  she  simply  said,  "It's  de 
Lawd's  doin's.  I  bin  prayin'  fur  ter 
fin'  yer.  When  dey  told  me  yer  wuz 
dead  an'  dey  done  foun'  yo'  grabe,  I 


340        In  White  and  Black. 

mos'  gin  up,  but  I  ain'  quite,  kase 
somp'in'  toP  me  we  gwin'  fin'  yer." 

"Do  you  think  the  Lord  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  all  this?"  This  ques 
tion  was  no  idle  one.  Lawrance  was 
attracted  and  impressed  by  the  simple 
faith  of  this  ignorant,  wise  soul,  and 
he  had  sighted  the  headlands  of  faith 
under  the  storm-rent  skies  of  the  last 
few  days.  Dora  looked  at  him  with 
the  first  pained,  hurt  expression  he  had 
ever  seen  on  her  face,  but  she  was 
silent. 

"Law,  chil',  I  knows  it.  How  come 
we  heah  dis  mawnin'  ef  'e  ain'  lead 
us?  Dis  is  er  big  woiT,  an'  we  bin  fur 
'part  an'  now  we  heah  in  dis  little 
room.  Ain'  somebody  brung  us 
heah?" 

"Aunt  Lylie,  I  have  sometimes 
thought  He  did  not  care;  else  He 
would  not  let  His  children  suffer  as 
Dora  and  you  and  I  have  suffered." 

"Dat's  whut  I  can'  zac'ly  mek  out 
myse'f;  but  I  know  dis,  yo'  burden 
don'  git  no  lighter  when  you'  don' 
trus'  an'  pray;  hit  git  heavier;  but 
when  you  pray,  it  seem  lak  er  han' 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting.    341 

cum  down  an'  he'ps  you  tote  de  load. 
I  don't  know  but  whut  hit  'pears  ter 
me  trouble's  ez  much  de  sign  er  His 
love  ez  de  glad  is,  kase  he's  tryin'  ter 
sabe  us.  Ben  use  ter  git  er  splinter  in 
'is  foot  an  cum  cryin'  to  'is  mammy. 
Den  I'd  set  'im  on  my  lap  an'  take  er 
needle  an'  git  it  out.  He  might  beg 
me  dat  I  won'  hu't  him.  But  hit 
gwine  ter  hu't  wuss  fur  dat  splinter  ter 
stay  dar  dan  hit  hu't  ter  git  it  out.  I 
ain'  axin'  how  come  it  in,  but  I  axin' 
how  I  kin  git  it  out.  I  don'  know  how 
'tis,  but  I  spec'  de  Lawd  hab  ter  do 
his  chillun  dat  a  way." 

"Aunt  Lylie,  I  want  to  believe  as 
you  believe,  and  as  Dora  believes," 
said  Lawrance,  "for  it  makes  life 
beautiful  and  the  heart  glad,  and  I 
am  going  to  try." 

"Mars  Lawrance,  I  dun  an'  prayed 
fur  you  day  an'  night.  Now  I  gwine 
leab  Dodie  wid  you,  de  chile  whut  I 
nuss  an'  keer  fur  so  long.  She  ain' 
got  no  mudder,  an'  she  won'  hab  ole 
black  Mammy  no  longer.  Ole  Mistiss 
waitin'  fur  'er  up  yander  an'  Ps 
gwine  ter  be  waitin'  fur  'er,  an'  we 


342         In  White  and  Black. 

spec'in'  you  ter  he'p  'er  an'  come  wid 
'er.  I  promus  Ole  Mistiss  I  gwine 
stay  wid  'er  an'  do  my  bes'  fur  'er  twell 
she  don'  need  me  no  mo'.  Now  dat 
time's  done  come,  an'  I  gwine  to  leab 
you  an'  her  in  de  han's  er  de  One  whut 
sabed  Ole  Mistiss  an'  sabes  Ole  Lylie 
dis  minnit."  She  took  Dora's  hand 
in  one  of  hers  and  Lawrance's  in  the 
other,  as  they  stood  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  bed  with  bowed  heads.  Invol 
untarily  they  obeyed  her  unexpressed 
desire  and  knelt,  and  she  prayed  with 
voice  sinking  lower  and  lower:  "O 
Lawd,  take  dese  chillun  by  dey  han' 
an'  lead  'em  same  ez  you  led  Ole 
Marster  an'  Mistiss.  De  paf  been 
mighty  rough  an'  dark,  but  now  hit's 
come  smoov,  an'  cle  light's  done  bruk 
fur  'em.  Keep  'em — side  an'  side — in 
de  narrer  paf — "  here  the  voice  sank 
to  a  whisper,  "an'  bring  'em  safe — "  it 
was  the  end.  The  last  breath  had 
spent  itself  in  prayer,  a  prayer  as  sa 
cred  and  acceptable  as  ever  ascended 
from  splendid  cathedral  altar,  and  one 
that  will  be  remembered  in  Heaven 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting.    343 

when  the  stately  pleadings  of  a  thou 
sand  sacerdotal  lips  are  forgotten. 

Just  then  the  sunshine  broke 
through  a  cloud  and,  stealing  through 
the  window  lattice,  fell  across  all 
three.  When  the  two  arose  from 
their  knees,  Aunt  Lylie's  bosom  was 
still.  Lawrance  looked  at  Dora  with 
a  new  tenderness,  a  new,  .deep  joy. 
The  light  had  entered  his  soul,  for  he 
had  looked  toward  the  Son  of  Right 
eousness. 

Here  we  bid  farewell  to  as  true, 
pure,  and  heroic  a  soul  as  ever  dwelt 
in  human  clay — God's  image  in  black, 
as  in  those  two  at  her  side  He  is  seek 
ing  to  repeat  His  image  in  white. 

Lawrance  came  from  the  death 
bed  of  Aunt  Lylie"  a  changed  man. 
The  great  deeps  of  his  nature  had 
been  stirred  by  the  events  of  the  past 
few  days.  He  had  been  drifted  be 
yond  the  cold  and  cheerless  regions 
of  speculation  by  currents  of  emotion 
that  scarcely  left  time  or  space  for 
the  rudder  of  his  own  choice.  At  the 
last  scene  of  that  strangely  simple 
yet  wondrously  wise  life,  ebbing  out 


344        In  White  and  Black. 

into  the  light,  he  had  yielded  himself 
to  the  divine  will  and  once  again  there 
was  joy  in  Heaven.  He  walked  home 
ward  feeling  as  one  who  has  been 
long  struggling  through  a  wilderness, 
pathless  and  wild,  going  he  knew  not 
whither,  but  has  at  last  emerged  into 
the  open,  and  sees  the  plain  highway 
lead  between  green  fields  and  sunny 
meadows,  all  sweet  with  the  breath  of 
springtime.  The  clouds  had  lifted; 
there  was  peace.  He  had  come  at 
once  to  the  end  of  his  wandering  and 
the  end  of  his  doubting. 

Between  the  joy  of  his  old  love  re 
quited  and  of  his  new  love  just  found 
he  could  easily  distinguish.  One  was 
the  best  earth  had  to  offer,  the  other  a 
taste  of  the  best  Heaven  has  to  be 
stow.  Till  now  the  love  of  Dora 
never  held  its  rightful  place  in  his 
heart.  It  was  divested  of  idolatry, 
for  it  was  now  subordinate  to  a  higher 
love.  It  was  none  the  less  tender, 
none  the  less  dominant  among  human 
loves,  but  it  was  truer,  more  divine, 
and  gave  more  real  joy  because  it 
held  its  rightful  place  in  a  heart  that 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting.     345 

had  found  a  higher  anchorage.  His 
human  love  and  its  object  were  lifted 
to  a  higher  plane  and  transfigured  in 
the  new  light  into  a  beauty  to  which 
they  were  before  strangers.  The 
whole  of  life,  its  joy  and  sorrow,  as 
sumed  a  new  beauty  under  the  glow 
of  this  splendid  dawn..  He  had  not 
only  found  Dora,  but  the  world,  him 
self,  and  God.  Henceforth  the  way 
was  clear. 

He  was  walking  by  the  river-side, 
the  swish  of  its  waters  was  in  his  ears; 
he  was  watching  the  sway  of  the  long 
grass  that  grew  beneath  the  surface, 
and  the  glad  rhythm  of  its  seaward 
flow  was  appealing  to  his  eye  and  ear. 
Just  overhead  a  mocking-bird  sang 
from  the  boughs  of  a  pecan-tree  rav 
ishing  snatches  that  leapt  from  song 
to  song,  as  if  the  singer  were  trying 
all  the  songs  he  knew  to  find  one  that 
would  fit  the  mood  of  the  hour,  and 
the  last  seeming  ever  sweeter  than  the 
rest — a  ladder  of  song  on  which  the 
soul  might  climb  far  into  the  heights 
of  rapture.  Lawrance  was  in  a  mood 
to  enjoy  the  scene  to  the  full,  for  once 


346        In  White  and  Black. 

more  his  heart  was  open  to  nature's 
secrets,  and  more  so  than  ever  to  her 
highest  secrets,  and  he  was  happy. 

Hearing  a  stealthy  footstep  behind 
him  Lawrance  turned  and  was  face  to 
face  with  Chris  Ware.  Extending  his 
hand  he  said,  "Come  with  me,  my 
friend,"  and  his  voice  and  his  manner 
spoke  more  than  his  words. 

The  proffered  hand  was  let  fall  by 
the  two  rough  hands  that  seized  it,  and 
taking  a  step  backward,  the  man 
stood  a  moment  before  speaking,  then 
shaking  his  head  sadly  he  said,  "Me? 
me?- your  friend?  You  didn't  mean 
that." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  You  saved  me 
from  those  ruffians  at  the  risk  of  your 
life,  and  last  night  you  saved — her, 
and  you  are  my  friend  and  her  friend," 
Lawrance  replied. 

"Not  yit,  not— yit— "  and  the  head 
shook  slowly  and  mournfully  and  the 
words  were  like  a  sob.  "Yer  see, 
'tain't  no  ways  shore  yit — I'm  a-tryin,' 
but  the  devil's  in  here  1"  and  he  clutched 
and  tore  at  his  breast.  "The  drink, 
the  drink,  it's  been  like  a  fire  in  me  all 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting.     347 

night  an'  all  day,  an'  I've  tramped  the 
streets  with  this  ragin'  hell  in  my 
breast.  I  know  ther's  a  devil,  but  is 
ther  a  God,  an'  will  'e  he'p?  Ef  I  go 
down  this  time,  it's  no  use,  the  jig's 
up.  Sumpin'  tole  me  jistnow,  'Here's 
the  river,  jump  in  an'  pass  yer  checks, 
fer  it's  no  use  tryin';  but  when  I  seen 
you  I  run  fum  the  river." 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Lawrance, 
kindly  laying  his  hand  on  Ware's 
shoulder.  "There  is  a  God  and  He  will 
help  His  children.  You  are  one  of 
His  blinded  prodigal  children,  and  I 
am  your  brother.  As  a  proof  that 
God  will  help,  He  has  taught  you  to 
help  and  is  teaching  me  to  help.  Come 
with  me  and  we  will  learn  together." 

Ware  drew  back,  and  almost  shook 
the  hand  from  his  shoulder.  "No,  I 
can't.  I  must  clear  out.  I  am  hungry. 
I  can't  git  no  work.  Who'd  ye  'spect 
to  trust  me?  Ef  I  could  only  git  work, 
I  mought  stick." 

Then  Lawrance  looked  at  his  face 
and  saw  it  was  pale  and  sunken,  and 
it  dawned  on  him  that  the  struggle 
was  not  only  with  the  devil  of  thirst 


34s         In  White  and  Black. 

but  also  of  hunger.  Then  the  tragedy 
of  this  unequal  fight  for  manhood,  this 
almost  hopeless  clutching  for  a  foot 
ing  on  the  steps  that  lift  themselves 
into  the  eternal  sunshine,  presented 
itself  before  his  mind,  and  this  man, 
who  had  waged  his  struggle  in  the 
dark  without  sympathy  or  bread,  with 
all  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  tugging  at 
him,  and  all  the  world  putting  out  its 
hands  to  push  him  down,  was  trans 
formed  into  a  hero.  But  he  also  knew 
there  is  an  end  to  human  endurance, 
and  this  man  had  but  now  reached  it, 
and  put  out  his  hand  for  that  touch  of 
human  sympathy  that  would  rally  his 
courage.  The  heart  of  Lawrance  went 
out  to  him  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
laying  hold  on  a  soul  just  slipping 
into  hell.  The  hand  he  laid  on  the 
man  now  was  one  of  authority,  and 
the  voice  had  in  it  tenderness  but  also 
command  as  he  said,  "Come."  And 
that  baffled  soul  seized  its  footing  on 
the  upward  slope;  and  as  they  walked 
away  there  were  three,  and  the  third 
was  whispering,  "Lo,  I  am  with  you." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  AND  HOME  AGAIN. 

The  holidays  were  at  hand.  The 
north  wind  rather  rudely  caressed 
the  roses  that  had  dared  the  domain 
of  winter,  swept  the  pecans  from  the 
trees,  spread  a  covering  of  leaves  over 
the  shivering  earth,  and  set  the  even 
ing  fires  hissing  and  glowing  with  their 
message  of  cheer.  The  color  was 
coming  to  Dora's  cheek,  the  light  to 
her  eye.  There  is  that  which  is  more 
than  climate,  more  than  physic;  which 
can  set  all  the  wheels  of  life  awhirl 
and  make  the  pulse  bound  with  new 
energy.  It  can  change  the  snows  of 
Lapland  to  blooming  gardens  and 
transform  the  leaden  gloom  of  winter 
to  tropic  springtime.  That  something 
had  come  to  Dora. 

Cousin  Jack  gladdened  them  all 
with  a  promised  visit.  Dora  and 
Lawrance  were  constantly  together, 

MO 


350         In  White  and  Black. 

and  Amelia  was  left  almost  entirely  to 
Jack's  attentions — thrown  on  his 
mercy,  as  she  expressed  it.  A  very 
tender  mercy,  we  are  about  to  suspect. 
Lawrance  could  no  longer  withhold 
from  Dora  the  secret  of  his  book.  > 
Who  was  ever  able  to  hide  his  ambi 
tions  from  the  one  he  loves?  It  is  one 
of  the  noblest  fruits  of  love  that  it 
furnishes  an  atmosphere  in  which  am 
bitious  dreams  and  half-formed  Uto 
pias  ripen.  The  crude,  unfinished 
poem,  kept  under  lock  and  key  from 
the  indifferent  eyes  of  the  world,  is 
brought  out  and  read,  not  without  sly 
apology  and  promise  of  improvement. 
Dreams  that  one  has  blushed  even  to 
entertain,  and  which  have  been  put 
away  a  hundred  times  as  a  foolish 
fancy,  are  laid  bare;  and  life  plans, 
which  in  the  world's  atmosphere  of 
cold  criticism  would  split  the  sides  of 
ridicule,  deck  themselves  out  in  the 
garb  of  rhetorical  exaggeration  in  the  i 
tempting  sunshine  of  love.  Well  it ' 
is  for  him  who  can  keep  through  the 
toiling  years  in  the  enchanting  atmos 
phere  that  has  the  power  to  lure  from 


Merry  Christmas — Home  Again. 

Its  cowering  retreat  the  daring  spirit 
of  endeavor. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  holidays 
Amelia  received  the  following  letter: 

DEAR  AMELIA:  Permit  me  to  address  you  thus  once  more. 
I  know  I  have  forfeited  that  right,  but  it  soothes  the  pain 
at  my  heart  to  speak  to  you  as  of  old.  As  I  think  of  that 
time,  now  forever  gone  with  all  but  its  memories,  a  flood  of 
thoughts  come  over  me,  but  of  that  I  will  not  write.  I 
have  wronged  you  and  others  deeper  than  you  know,  and 
deeper  than  I  realized  until  recently.  Pride,  avarice  and 
ambition  blinded  my  eyes  to  my  own  guilt.  The  discovery 
of  it  has  come  too  late.  All  that  is  left  m«  now  is  to  seek 
forgiveness.  I  am  sick — the  physicians  say  hopelessly, 
and  so  I  believe. 

Could  I  see  you  once  more  and  hear  you  say  you  forgive 
me,  I  could  die  content.     If  this  is  not  to  be,  will  you  not 
at  least  try  to  think  of  me  as  I  used  to  appear  to  you  in 
those  bright  days  before  the  shadows  fell? 
Farewell  till  we  meet. 

ROSWELL  GRANTLBY. 

Then  Amelia  was  in  haste  to  go.  Un 
fathomable  heart  of  woman!  Her  idol 
was  shattered,  and  she  no  longer  wor 
shiped,  but  pity  still  reigned  in  her 
heart. 

"The  being  she  loved  was  no  mora. 
What  she  saw  in  the  silence  and  heard  in  the  lone 
Void  of  life,  was  the  young  hero  born  of  her  own 
Perished  youth." 

There  is  a  master  to  some  natures 
stronger  than  love;  its  name  is  duty. 
Amelia's  was  one  of  those  natures, 


352        In  White  and  Black. 

and  when  her  sensitive  conscience 
said  she  ought,  though  all  the  clamor 
of  pride  and  passion  and  pleasure 
sought  to  drown  its  voice,  her  will  re 
sponded  unhesitatingly,  "I  must." 
This  is  the  stuff  of  which  martyrs  and 
heroes  are  made,  and  all  the  world's 
uplift  has  come  through  the  strength 
of  such  souls. 

Poor  Jack !  It  was  a  sad  and  lonely 
day  for  him  when  he  went  back  to  the 
ranch.  Amelia  had  left  him  without 
one  encouraging  word.  She  had  been 
kind,  gentle,  almost  tender  in  her 
manner,  but  had  forbidden  him  to 
hope.  If  Jack  was  pained  at  this  part 
ing,  he  was  not  alone  in  his  suffering. 
Life  has  in  it  more  tragedy  than  is 
written.  If  he  made  a  forced  sacri 
fice  to  Amelia's  high  sense  of  duty,  she 
laid  her  own  live,  beating  heart  on  the 
altar  willingly.  She  had  set  her  face 
towards  a  rare  and  beautiful  sacrifice. 

Thus,  when  the  sun  shines  for 
some,  the  shadows  fall  on  others. 
The  extent  of  Amelia's  sacrifice  is  be 
yond  our  power  to  know,  as  its  na 
ture  and  motive  are  beyond  the  com- 


Merry  Christmas — Home  Again.  353 

prehension  of  any  whose  lives  are  on 
a  lower  plane  than  hers.  Her  heart, 
all  bruised  and  mangled  as  it  was, 
had  begun  to  heal  in  the  atmosphere 
of  Jack's  genial,  noble  presence.  She 
had  known  him  only  a  few  days  when 
she  was  dismayed  to  find  that  what 
she  had  thought  an  impossibility  was 
actually  coming  to  pass.  She  had  put 
far  from  her  all  thoughts  of  loving 
again.  Her  heart  was  dead  within 
her.  But  it  now  began  to  live,  and 
the  thoughts  and  dreams  of  love  be 
gan  to  come  back  as  the  nesting  birds 
come  back  in  the  springtime.  But 
she  kept  her  secret  subdued  and  hid 
den  with  higher  thoughts.  When 
that  secret  struggled  to  be  free,  and 
she  yearned  to  give  response  to  the 
love  that  plead  for  one  little  crumb  of 
hope,  she  hushed  its  cry  with  another 
word,  "duty."  Thus,  these  two,  the 
currents  of  whose  lives  had  met  and 
mingled,  and  whose  hearts  had  leaped 
to  each  other  as  if  all  the  past  had 
meant  them  for  each  other,  parted 
and  went  their  ways. 


354        IH  White  and  Black. 

Amelia  hastened  to  the  bed-side  of 
Roswell.  She  found  him  indeed  a 
wreck  of  his  former  self,  with  no  hope 
of  recovery,  but  at  most  only  the  pros 
pect  of  lingering  invalidism.  She  as 
sured  him  of  her  complete  forgive 
ness,  cheered  and  comforted  him  as 
only  she  could  do,  and  at  once  took 
her  position  as  his  good  angel.  She 
forbade  him  to  speak  of  the  painful 
things  of  the  past,  under  penalty  of 
her  displeasure.  She  spent  such  part 
of  every  day  by  his  side,  reading  and 
talking,  as  she  could  spare  from  her 
work,  for  she  was  compelled  to  teach 
for  support. 

We  leave  her  there  at  her  self-chosen 
post,  in  spite  of  her  heart's  human 
yearnings,  and  in  spite  of  the  tender, 
pleading  letters  from  Jack,  keeping 
steadily  to  the  highway  of  duty  as  it 
appeared  to  her.  Who  shall  blame 
her  if  her  heart  was  often  far  away 
with  the  ranchman,  and  who  shall 
think  her  the  less  a  heroine  that  she 
was  not  able  to  smother  the  passion 
to  which  she  refused  to  yield?  Noble 
nature  1  Thy  like  is  all  too  rare  in  this 


Merry  Christmas — Home  Again.  355 

beclouded  earth,  where  unselfish  deeds 
shine  so  bright  and  so  far!  Perhaps, 
some  day,  when  thou  art  released 
from  thy  self-imposed  watch  by  the 
side  of  him  who  caused  thy  deepest 
pain,  Heaven  will  appoint  thee  thy 
place  by  the  side  of  one  who  will  bring 
joy  to  thee,  thy  greatest  joy;  who 
knows?  Meantime,  think  well  that  in 
the  crucifixion  of  thy  own  life  thou  art 
also  devoting  to  a  life  of  inconsolable 
loneliness  another,  and  while  bring 
ing  light  and  cheer  to  one,  thou  art 
drawing  a  cloud  of  gloom  over  the 
sky  of  another.  Think  well,  and 
choose. 

Mr.  Melton  welcomed  both  Dora 
and  Lawrance  with  great  joy.  He 
gave  them  a  father's  blessing,  and  in 
their  happiness  this  man  of  many 
years  and  many  cares  became  happy 
himself,  and,  as  he  beheld  their  sweet 
contentment,  was  carried  out  of  his 
perplexities  back  to  the  sunny  years 
of  his  own  youth,  and  love  again 
sang  its  rapturous  songs  through  his 
dreams. 


In  White  and  Black. 

The  reader  would  not,  and  ought 
not,  to  foEgive"  these  lovers  if  they  did 
not  go  out  under  the  big  beech  and 
stand  once  more  together  on  the  spot 
where  on  that  memorable  first  of 
May  the  secret  broke  into  speech. 
Trust  them  to  think  of  the  propriety 
of  that,  or,  rather,  to  do  it,  propriety 
or  no  propriety.  Standing  there,  look 
ing  into  each  other's  eyes,  once  again 
speech  fails.  In  a  delicious,  eloquent, 
rapturous  silence  they  give  them 
selves  to  memories  and  hopes,  or 
rather  let  us  say  to  oblivion  of  all 
save  each  other. 

"Dora!" 

"Lawrance!" 

Reader,  let  us  take  a  turn  among 
these  stately  trees,  and  draw  our 
wraps  about  us;  for  it  is  chilly  for 
those  who  have  nothing  else  to  keep 
them  warm  save  these  woven  rags,  and 
let  us  not  try  to  overhear  or  oversee 
these  lovers.  Let  us  together  be  glad 
that  such  a  moment  has  ever  been 
in  our  own  lives,  and  pity  the  poor 
wretches  who,  beneath  some  beech, 
or  beside  some  rosebush,  or  astroll 


Merry  Christmas — Home  A  gain. 

on  some  moonlit  lawn,  have  never 
listened  to  their  own  hearts  beat  in 
passionate  syllables  and  heard  the 
echo  from  another  heart,  blissfully 
conscious  the  while  that  no  curious 
eyes  or  ears  were  nigh. 


THE  END. 


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